ACK 


HALAMAR 


Ofco 
550 


BY 

GERTRUDE 
POTTER  DAN  I  ELS 


lifornia 

onal 

ity 


HALAHAR 


By 

Gertrude  Potter  Daniels 


CHICAGO         NEW  YORK 

GEORGE  M.  HILL  COMPANY 
HDCCCC 


Copyright,  1900,  by 

GEORGE  M.  HILL  COMPANY 


HALAMAR 


2075629 


"There  are  chemical  formations  re- 
sulting from  untoasted  bread  that  are 
fatal  to  a  weak  stomach  like  mine," 
explained  Madam  Worthington  to  Dr. 
Maurice,  "and  there  is  a  great  differ- 
ence in  the  way  bread  is  toasted.  That 
is  one  reason  why  I  am  kept  so  closely 
at  home.  My  stomach  denies  me  many 
pleasures  and  all  freedom." 

The  lady  made  this  statement  expect- 
ing sympathy.  She  had  made  the 
statement  so  often  that  it  had  become 
second  nature  to  listen  for  murmurs  of 
concern  to  follow  it.  Her  face  had 
taken  on  the  expression  of  resignation 
it  always  assumed  at  this  point,  but  in- 
stead of  murmurs  her  daughter-in-law 
remarked:  — 

"Toast  keeps,"  a  terse  assertion, 
harmless  in  itself,  but  it  brought  a 
startled  look  to  her  husband's  face. 


6  HALAMAR 

"  Until  I  began  to  eat  toasted 
bread,"  went  on  the  elder  lady,  with 
a  defiant  squaring  of  her  shoulders  and 
a  superb  ignoring  of  the  remark,  "my 
stomach  rejected  all  food,  and  I  was  in 
a  state  bordering  on  physical  collapse 
from  sheer  weakness.  I  owe  much, 
very  much,  to  toasted  bread." 

Maurice  bowed  profoundly.  He  had 
graduated  from  so  many  medical 
schools  that  he  had  begun  to  think  in- 
dependently. As  a  result  he  had  lost 
faith  in  physic,  and  read  character 
from  complaints,  and  he  seldom  found 
the  process  misleading. 

He  sat  opposite  his  hostess,  and, 
while  not  in  the  habit  of  noticing  what 
people  ate,  he  now  watched  Madam 
Worthington  unconsciously.  He  con- 
cluded that  she  could  no  longer  be  suf- 
fering from  weakness.  She  had  a 
remarkably  good  appetite. 

Jean  watched  her,  too,  not  at  all 
because  she  was  interested  in  Madam 
Worthington's  diet;  for  she  was  not, — 
but  after  months  of  doing  one  thing  it 


HALAMAR 

becomes  a  habit,  and  for  a  long  time 
she  had  sat  beside  her  and  watched. 
She  listened,  too.  She  had  such  an 
intense  dread  of  the  crunching  of  that 
article  which  did  not  contain  chemical 
formations,  that  she  heard  the  sound 
distinctly.  There  seemed  positively  no 
escape  from  it.  While  she  generally 
kept  herself  in  hand,  suffering  in  silence, 
sometimes  she  laughed  outright,  a  jerky, 
grating  laugh  that  a  critical  observer 
would  have  recognized  at  once  as  hys- 
terical. But  this  always  happened  dur- 
ing some  moment  of  suspended  con- 
versation. The  result  was  a  more 
telling  silence  and  a  withering  glance 
from  Madam  Worthington.  At  this 
point  Jean  usually  made  matters  worse 
by  giggling  and  saying  something  in- 
ane that  was  seized  upon  by  the  guests 
as  a  way  out  of  an  uncomfortable  situ- 
ation. 

"Young  people  nowadays  have  so 
little  sympathy,"  continued  Madam 
Worthington,  helping  herself  plentifully 
to  a  dessert  that  was  before  her.  At  the 


8_  HALAMAR 

same  time  she  sent  a  half-glance 
toward  the  girl,  a  glance  that  was 
intended  to  show  the  littleness  of  the 
human  mind.  "Jean  is  a  person  of 
such  excellent  nerves  that  she  lacks 
sensitiveness.  She  is  self-centered  as 
well,  and,  like  the  girls  of  the  present 
generation,  selfish  and  ungrateful." 

Her  son  looked  up  impatiently. 
Jean  flushed.  Both  knew  what  was 
coming,  but  in  spite  of  having  no  "sen- 
sitiveness," Jean  never  became  quite 
used  to  these  frequent  dissertations  on 
her  shortcomings.  They  were  so  un- 
flinchingly personal. 

"Girls  in  my  day,  Doctor,  were 
brought  up  to  be  domestic  and  revere 
their  elders.  They  were  competent 
housekeepers  before  they  became  wives 
and  helpmeets  afterward.  Now  their 
one  desire  apparently  is  to  emulate 
men.  They  attempt  to  carry  out  their 
masculine  ideas  by  smoking,  and  wear- 
ing shirts.  Their  manners  are  vulgar, 
they  know  nothing  of  the  feminine  arts, 
and  they  are  unladylike  and  unrefined." 


HALAMAR  9 

Dr.  Maurice  was  looking  at  his 
plate,  and  his  hostess,  looking  also  at 
hers,  did  not  see  the  expression  that 
had  come  into  his  eyes.  He  was  a  man 
who  found  good  in  the  world  and  in 
people,  so  he  protested  :  — 

"I  think,  Madam,  if  you  will  allow 
me  to  say  it,  that  you  are  a  little  se- 
vere." He  was  extremely  courteous 
and  seemed  to  be  interested,  but  these 
two  facts  did  not  help  him.  Madam 
Worthington  was  unused  to  contradic- 
tions. In  this  case,  too,  she  wanted  to 
have  it  distinctly  understood  that  she 
did  not  approve  of  her  daughter-in-law, 
and  she  was  willing  to  give  her  reasons. 
She  was  too  proud  to  explain  that  her 
disapproval  was  based  on  the  fact  that 
the  advice  which  she  had  volunteered 
had  not  been  followed  by  her  son  in 
the  matter  of  his  marriage.  But  even 
the  least  suspicious  of  listeners  soon 
discovered  that  this  was  the  root  of 
her  antagonism.  Now  she  lifted  her 
head  to  a  chilling  height  and  said  with 
much  manner:  — 


10  HALAMAR 

"I  am  not  at  all  severe.  I  am 
merely  just, —  just  to  myself  and  to  my 
views,  as  well  as  to  my  rearing.  Look 
at  Jean  !  What  does  she  do  ?  And 
she  is  a  fair  example  of  the  modern 
wife.  Can  she  cook,  or  sew,  or  direct 
a  house  ?  Does  she  shoulder  any  re- 
sponsibility ?  If  she  had  married  a 
poor  man,  would  she  have  been  in  any 
sense  a  helpmeet  ?  " 

Jean  took  a  hasty  swallow  of  water, 
then  she  raised  her  eyes  and  looked  her 
mother-in-law  squarely  in  the  face;  too 
squarely;  it  foreboded  desperation. 

"Madam  Worthington,  it  is  unfair 
to  show  only  my  ignorance.  It  is 
quite  true  I  do  not  know  how  to  do 
any  of  these  things  you  have  men- 
tioned. But  how  should  I  know  ?  I 
never  had  a  home,  or  a  chance  for  ex- 
perience in  these  things  until  I  came 
here  to  you.  I  was  anxious  to  learn. 
I  was  also  more  than  willing  to  take 
my  share  of  the  responsibilities.  I  told 
you  this,  and  apologized  at  the  same 
time,  you  remember,  for  knowing  so 


HALAMAR  II 

little  about  this  sort  of  thing.  You  never 
were  willing  to  give  me  any  credit  for 
what  I  had  done  and  could  do.  The 
fact  that  I  could  support  my  mother, 
and  sister,  and  myself,  and  that  I  had 
been  the  breadwinner  for  my  family 
since  I  was  a  child,  could  not  atone 
with  you  for  my  helplessness  in  direct- 
ing a  corps  of  servants.  I  have  no 
wish  to  argue  this  subject,  but  I  believe 
of  the  two,  my  work  was  greater  and 
more  necessary  than  yours.  I  sup- 
ported, you  spend." 

The  expression  on  the  Doctor's  face 
was  very  noticeable  now,  and  it  an- 
noyed Madam  Worthington. 

"It  is  quite  unnecessary  to  force 
your  stage  life  into  my  home,"  she 
snapped.  She  would  have  said  more 
but  her  physician  had  cautioned  against 
getting  overheated  after  a  hearty  meal. 

"It  is  my  defense,"  said  Jean 
quietly,  ' '  otherwise  I  would  have  no 
wish  to  force  it  into  your  home."  She 
was  going  to  add,  "or  myself  either," 
but  she  was  afraid  that  it  would  hurt 


12  HALAMAR 

Herbert;  besides,  it  would  have  been 
impertinent. 

At  this  point  Herbert  Worthington 
rose  hastily.  He  looked  nowhere  in 
particular  and  his  words  came  nerv- 
ously. "  May  we  have  coffee  served  on 
the  veranda,  mother  ?  "  he  asked. 

Madam  gave  an  unwilling  consent. 
She  had  not  finished  much  that  she 
wished  Dr.  Maurice  to  hear.  Perhaps 
his  expression  would  have  given  place 
to  another  if  she  had  been  able  to  en- 
lighten him  with  her  entire  version  of 
this  matter  with  Jean. 

The  four  moved  slowly  out  on  to  the 
veranda,  where  Jean  stood  a  little  dis- 
tance from  the  others.  The  salt  air 
came  up  cool  and  sweet  from  the 
ocean.  Jean  looked  out  across  the 
great,  tumbling  mass  of  blue  and  white, 
and  forgot  her  resentment.  The  world 
was  beautiful,  if  the  people  in  it  were 
not.  She  stood  there  so  long  breath- 
ing in  the  delicious  air  that  a  bird  on 
the  highest  branch  of  a  tree  near  by- 
turned  its  head,  looked  at  her  a  mo- 


HALAMAR  13 

ment,  and  then  went  on  pluming  itself, 
and  singing  an  occasional  snatch  of 
song.  But  she  was  not  watching  the 
bird.  She  was  hearing  her  husband 
move  a  chair.  She  knew  how  he  was 
arranging  pillows  and  foot-rests,  and 
the  wish  passed  through  her  mind  that 
Herbert  might  sometimes  show  her 
the  little  attentions  which  he  gave  so 
freely  to  his  mother.  While  she  hated 
herself  for  the  feeling,  she  was  continu- 
ally having  the  sensation  of  being  left 
out  —  an  interloper.  She  understood 
that  it  was  her  mother-in-law's  wish  to 
have  her  feel  this;  Herbert  did  not 
want  it  so.  But  now  before  she  could 
brood  she  heard  the  sound  of  a  horse 
cantering,  and  turned.  The  move 
brought  her  face  into  the  clear  sun- 
light. 

"Oh,  Dick,  hello!  I'm  so  glad 
you've  come,"  she  cried  out  to  the 
man  on  the  horse. 

He  took  off  his  hat  and  waved  it; 
then  he  pulled  the  animal  up  sharply 
and  leaned  over  to  pat  its  head. 


14  HALAMAR 

"We  are  just  having  coffee  out  here. 
Come  and  join  us." 

'  Do  you  want  me  ?  "  He  was  bend- 
ing over  so  far  that  his  face  was  on  a 
level  with  hers. 

She  laughed  lightly.  "You  know," 
she  said  in  a  low  voice. 

When  he  had  dismounted,  they  both 
stood  watching  the  horse  as  the  groom 
led  it  away. 

By  this  time  Madam  Worthington 
had  been  established  comfortably,  even 
to  a  pair  of  binoculars  close  at  hand 
with  which  to  watch  events  that  might 
happen  out  of  the  range  of  her  specta- 
cles. So  Dr..  Maurice  and  Herbert 
joined  the  other  two.  There  was  a  lit- 
tle constraint  in  Worthington's  manner 
as  he  shook  hands  with  Dick  Carring- 
ton,  but  Maurice  clapped  him  on  the 
shoulder,  and  his  way  of  doing  it  was  a 
caress.  Dick  was  a  great  favorite  with 
him. 

"I  have  run  away  from  my  work.  I 
should  have  gone  to  New  York  last 
week.  I  simply  have  no  business  being 


HALAMAR  15 

idle  one  moment,"  Carrington  said, 
going  toward  Madam  Worthington. 
"Your  home  is  such  an  attractive 
one,"  he  added,  bowing  over  the  hand 
that  she  held  out. 

The  old  lady  looked  up  at  him 
sharply.  "Are  you  sure  it  is  the  home 
that  is  attractive  ?  "  she  asked. 

Carrington  never  blushed.  His  face 
was  so  bronzed  that  extra  color  would 
not  have  shown  anyway.  But  he  did 
not  take  life  very  seriously,  and  now 
he  laughed  unaffectedly. 

"  The  home  and  all  that  lies  therein. 
Literally  the  boards  and  lath  and  plas- 
ter can  not  be  called  alluring,  I  sup- 
pose. Even  the  pictures,  and  bric- 
a-brac,  and  works  of  art  and  all  the 
rest  that  goes  towards  making  up  a 
charming  whole  would  lose  much  of 
their  charm  without  the  life  that  people 
infuse  into  them.  Of  course  I  enjoy 
beautiful  things  in  themselves  and  for 
themselves,  but  I  spoke  more  from  the 
idealic  point  of  view."  This  was  a 
long  speech  from  Carrington.  Think- 


16  HALAMAR 

ing  of  it  afterward  he  wondered  just 
why  he  had  spoken  at  such  length.  It 
sounded,  too,  like  an  explanation,  yet 
he  assured  himself  that  he  really  had 
nothing  to  explain. 

"  It  all  follows  out  the  law  of  sugges- 
tion," mused  Maurice,  who  was  a  great 
believer  in  that  law.  "  Have  you  never 
associated  a  thing  with  a  person  until 
the  inanimate  teemed  with  the  thought 
and  the  feeling  of  its  owner  ? "  He 
had  addressed  no  one  in  particular. 
He  had  an  abstracted  way  of  speaking, 
yet  people  always  listened  to  him.  "  It 
is  through  that  law  of  suggestion  that 
we  put  ourselves  in  touch  with  the 
Creator.  Ah,  that  is  a  wonderful 
power."  He  rolled  out  the  word  "won- 
derful" until  it  became  replete  with  an 
intense  meaning. 

But  because  this  mention  of  the 
Creator  was  not  entirely  conventional 
it  was  seized  upon  by  Madam  Worth- 
ington  as  a  possibility  for  argument. 
She  considered  herself  appealed  to  and 
regarded  herself  for  the  moment  as 


HALAMAR  17 

God's  defender.  "  I  do  not  agree  with 
you,"  she  put  in  testily.  "The  tend- 
ency of  the  age  lies  too  much  that  way. 
All  these  idealistic  views  —  what  are 
they  but  an  attempt  to  fill  out  laws  for 
the  expounding  of  sentimentality  ?  Old 
fashioned  ideas  were  not  sentimental, 
and  they  still  stand  as  solid  founda- 
tions for  good  common  sense.  I  am 
an  advocate  of  the  old  school." 

To  her  great  disappointment  the 
cudgel  was  not  assumed  by  Dr.  Mau- 
rice, for  he  never  argued.  He  leaned 
back  in  his  chair,  not  even  flushing, 
and  looked  out  at  the  sea.  The  im- 
mensity of  it  was  reassuring. 

"  I  am  going  down  to  the  beach," 
announced  Jean.  She  had  been  wan- 
dering up  and  down  restlessly.  Some- 
times quiescence  is  an  impossibility. 

"  May  I  go?"  asked  Carrington,  a 
little  hastily,  then  immediately  feeling 
that  he  should  not  have  asked  so 
abruptly. 

"  Certainly.       And    you,   Dr.    Mau- 
rice, will    you  go  ?  " 
2 


18  HALAMAR 

But  Maurice  had  to  start  for  town  in 
a  few  moments  and  Herbert  would  not 
leave  him,  so  Jean  and  Carrington 
went  away  together. 

"  I  'm  glad  they  couldn't,"  said  Dick, 
vaguely. 

She  was  silent,  picking  her  way  care- 
fully down  the  steep  bluff  until  they 
were  half  way  to  the  beach.  Then  she 
stopped.  "Dick,  it  has  about  come 
to  the  jumping  off  place,"  she  began, 
abruptly.  She  was  not  referring  to  the 
bluff,  but  Carrington  understood. 

"  I  knew  it  would.  You  ought  never 
to  have  left  the  stage.  You  had  too 
much  ability." 

"It  isn't  that  at  all,"  she  broke  in, 
impetuously.  "  I  understood  what  I 
was  giving  up  when  I  did  it.  The 
stage  means  hard  work,  and  struggles, 
and  jealousies.  I  loved  it,  of  course. 
It  was  my  profession.  But  it  is  n't 
that.  I  am  not  regretting.  It  is  her 
unfairness  and  —  the  toast." 

A  queer  gleam  came  into  Carring- 
ton's  eyes.  He  wanted  to  say  some 


HALAMAR  19 

things  that  he  knew  were  not  right. 
"Herbert  ought  to  take  you  away,"  he 
exclaimed  finally,  with  more  force  than 
the  words  warranted.  Then  he  began 
to  punch  holes  in  the  sand  with  the 
handle  of  his  riding  whip.  "She  is 
the  most  impossible  person  I  know." 
"  That's  it.  He  ought  to  give  me  a 
home  that  is  mine,"  she  went  on,  tak- 
ing up  the  first  part  of  his  speech.  "A 
place  where  I  could  study  housekeep- 
ing in  private  and  laugh  away  the  mis- 
takes with  him.  I  suppose  it  is  not  in 
the  least  honorable,  my  talking  to  you 
about  Herbert  and  his  mother,  but  the 
mother  does  not  spare  me.  '  An  eye 
for  an  eye,'  yet  I  never  believed  wholly 
in  that  either.  But  sometimes  one  has 
to  talk,  absolutely  must.  I  keep  still 
so  long  that  I  have  to  get  relief  occa- 
sionally, and  let  out  my  grievances. 
You  see  I  can  not  understand  her  ways 
at  all.  She  lives  for,  and  is  governed 
by,  that  house.  She  has  no  thought 
beyond  it,  no  interest  above  it.  I  try 
to  get  used  to  its  being  in  a  constant 


20  HALAMAR 

state  of  upheaval.  I  try  to  think  that 
a  house  is  meant  for  that ;  that  we 
build  and  furnish,  not  for  comfort  and 
peace,  but  for  the  privilege  of  contin- 
ually cleaning  and  worrying.  Once  I 
remarked  that  this  feature  appeared 
unnatural.  It  was  a  mistake.  For  a 
moment  I  was  stared  at  in  deadly  si- 
lence, then  I  was  asked  to  be  seated. 
Madam  Worthington  seated  herself 
opposite  to  me.  With  great  dignity 
and  reserve  she  informed  me  that  she 
was  carrying  out  a  system  of  genera- 
tions of  ancestors  ;  this  housekeeping 
was  a  trust,  the  carrying  out  of  which 
had  become  a  sacred  duty;  that  at  her 
death  this  task  would  fall  upon  her 
son's  wife,  and  it  was  befitting  that  this 
wife  should  be  prepared  for  the  holy 
work.  She  explained  this  to  me  at 
great  length,  and  all  the  while  she  was 
talking  I  had  such  an  uncontrollable 
desire  to  laugh  that  I  couldn't  entirely 
hide  my  amusement.  It  really  was 
funny  because  she  was  so  serious.  Of 
course  she  saw  that  I  was  not  im- 


HALAMAR  21 

pressed,  and  she  was  offended  and 
asked  with  punctiliousness  what  my 
ideas  were  about  housekeeping.  It 
was  a  retaliation.  I  gave  my  ideas  ; 
at  least  the  only  ideas  I  had.  I  set 
forth  the  art  of  dusting  and  sweeping 
as  it  existed  for  stage  business.  I  even 
went  through  a  scene  for  her.  Dick, 
that  was  the  climax  —  a  fatal  climax. 
It  did  not  reassure  her  at  all.  Stage 
housekeeping  and  New  England  house- 
keeping are  not  one  and  the  same." 

"Not  at  all,"  Carrington  filled  in 
the  pause. 

"She  began  from  that  moment  to 
judge  me  altogether  from  the  stand- 
point of  an  unworthy  addition  to  tradi- 
tion. I  did  not  mind  that,  for  in  the 
main,  it  was  ridiculous.  I  could  have 
stood  it  easily.  I  could  even  have 
stood  the  toast,  but  because  I  was  not 
crushed,  she  seemed  exasperated  and 
became  insulting.  She  says  things  that 
are  untrue  and  Herbert  lets  her  talk. 
That  hurts.  She  insinuates  to  every- 
one who  comes  here  that  I  married 


22  HALAMAR 

him  for  money,  and  sometimes  I  think 
Herbert  believes  her.  He  has  heard  it 
so  much.  He  is  getting  unreasonable 
and  is  so  unlike  himself." 

"Damned  cad,"  muttered  Dick. 

"No,  he  isn't.  He  is  New  Eng- 
land. Naturally  he  is  not  used  to  the 
kind  of  girl  I  represent.  I  think  he 
hardly  knows  what  to  make  of  me. 
He  has  lived  so  long  with  his  mother. 
I  can't  be  circumspect  or  even  digni- 
fied except  for  a  few  moments  when  a 
part  requires  it.  Neither  can  I  be  ele- 
gant to  strangers  and  slipshod  to  my 
own.  I  suppose  I  have  been  bumped 
into  by  people  so  hard  all  my  life  that 
it  makes  me  free  and  easy.  One  gets 
away  from  elegance  of  manner  after 
years  of  'bumping/  His  mother  calls 
me  vulgarly  familiar ;  he  calls  it  flirt- 
ing. She  sneers  and  he 's  jealous.  I 
have  tried  to  change,  but  it 's  no  use. 
My  manners  are  part  of  me,  like  my 
nose  or  my  hair.  I  am  not  vulgar  and 
I  don't  flirt  —  now." 

"Well?"     queried  Dick. 


HALAMAR  23 

"There  we  are.  There  is  where  I 
always  land.  '  Well. '  You  know  that 
I  am  very  fond  of  Herbert,  really  very 
fond,  but  these  constant  quarrels  make 
me  lose  patience  and  courage.  It  has 
not  been  my  way  to  live  in  quarrels. 
There  come  days  when  I  think  I  would 
not  mind  leaving  it  all  if  it  were  not 
for  Lucie.  But  it  is  a  big  question  to 
decide;  beside  I  believe  in  the  stability 
of  marriage  vows." 

She  put  this  out  as  a  kind  of  argu- 
ment. 

"  When  is  Lucie  coming  home  ?  "  he 
asked,  ignoring  the  remark. 

"Very  soon;  and  I  had  planned 
such  a  winter  for  her.  A  coming  out 
party  and  society  and  all  that.  She  is 
pretty,  and  she  will  have  beautiful 
clothes.  I  am  sure  she  will  be  a  great 
success.  She  has  the  society  tempera- 
ment. You  know  it  takes  a  combi- 
nation of  peculiar  characteristics  to 
make  a  successful  society  woman." 
There  was  an  expression  of  amusement 
on  Jean's  face. 


24  HALAMAR 

Carringtonwas  watching  her.  "  Hal, 
you  have  sacrificed  enough  for  that 
girl,"  he  said  presently. 

She  looked  up  at  him  quickly.  The 
care  had  all  gone  from  her  eyes.  Nei- 
ther one  of  them  had  heard  the  other 
man  coming  down  the  path  that  rose 
steep  above  them;  nor  did  they  know 
when  he  stopped  only  a  few  feet  away. 
He  was  in  plain  sight  if  they  had  turned 
their  heads.  But  they  did  not  turn, 
and  he,  knowing  that  they  had  not 
heard,  kept  very  still  that  his  presence 
should  not  be  known. 

"  Dick,  you  have  not  called  me  that 
since  — "  she  stopped  a  moment,  think- 
ing. 

"  Since  the  night  that  you  told  me 
you  were  going  to  marry  Worthington, " 
he  finished. 

"  Yes.  It  is  a  long  time.  You  did 
not  like  it." 

"  Why  should  I  have  liked  it  ?  '\ 

Jean  made  no  immediate  response  to 
this.  She  had  grown  pale  and  looked 
tired. 


HALAMAR  25 

"You  know  that  I  thought  it  was 
a  shame  to  ruin  your  whole  future 
the  way  you  did.  There  is  no  getting 
around  the  fact  that  you  had  a  glorious 
chance.  I  told  you  then  as  I  tell  you 
now,  you  considered  Lucie  too  much  — 
yourself  too  little.  I  believe  in  sisterly 
forethought;  I  do  not  believe  in  self- 
sacrifice."  Carrington  hesitated  a  mo- 
ment, then  went  on  slowly.  "  Besides,  I 
cared  a  .great  deal  for  you,  Hal,  and,  I 
suppose  I  have  no  right  to  say  it,  it 
was  hard  to  give  you  up  to  him.  You 
see  I  was  jealous,  and  a  man  is  selfish 
when  he  is  jealous.  He  can't  see  be- 
yond his  own  sorrow  and  disappoint- 
ment. It  didn't  make  it  a  bit  easier 
to  know  that  you  were  getting  a  better 
fellow  and  one  worthier  of  you  than  I 
could  ever  have  been.  I  simply  did 
not  want  him  to  have  you.  I  thought 
then  that  I  could  not  endure  it." 

Up  to  this  time  Jean  had  sat  rigid 
and  speechless  under  the  torrent  of  the 
man's  words.  She  had  never  known 
Carrington  to  show  such  feeling  before. 


26  HALAMAR 

Usually  this  was  not  his  method  of  tak- 
ing life.  For  some  time  she  could  not 
bring  herself  to  a  realization  of  what 
he  was  saying.  But  finally  the  tension 
went  out  of  her  whole  body.  Then 
she  turned  to  him. 

"Don't,  Dick.  Stop!  This  is  not 
right,"  she  said,  hurriedly. 

And  just  then  the  other  man  stepped 
down.  "  Carrington,  I  want  Jean  for 
a  little  while,"  he  said. 


II 


Carrington  rose  immediately,  scarce- 
ly glancing  at  Worthington,  who  stood 
stiffly  erect  and  staring  straight  ahead. 

The  coming  of  the  other  man  had 
been  so  abrupt  and  so  unexpected  that, 
for  a  moment,  his  presence  brought 
a  kind  of  terror  into  the  girl's  mind. 
After  all,  it  is  oftener  the  appearance 
of  guilt  rather  than  any  actual  wrong- 
doing, that  influences  a  judgment. 

Jean  watched  Carrington  climb  the 
bluff  and  disappear.  She  knew  that 
with  his  going  a  silence  must  be  bro- 
ken, and  in  the  talk  to  follow,  a  deci- 
sion must  be  reached.  This  decision 
had  been  approaching  for  a  long  time. 
Now  that  it  had  come  she  shrank  from 
the  ordeal.  It  is  not  easy  to  reason 
over  a  serious  problem  with  a  man  who 
is  so  jealous  as  to  be  blind  to  logic. 
Jean  also  realized  that  if  he  had  over- 

27 


28  HALAMAR 

heard  Dick's  speech,  nothing  would 
ever  convince  her  husband  that  there 
was  no  justification  for  his  suspicions. 

All  at  once  the  beauty  of  the  day 
faded.  The  loveliness  of  the  sea  and 
the  sky  and  the  sweetness  of  the  air 
grew  oppressive  as  the  gloom  of  her 
own  unhappiness.  She  raised  her  eyes 
frankly  to  his,  and  the  look  in  them 
should  have  set  his  mind  at  rest.  She 
had  nothing  to  withhold,  nothing  to 
evade. 

He  broke  into  his  subject  at  once. 
At  first  his  thought  had  been  not  to 
mention  the  overhearing  of  their  con- 
versation, but  a  moment's  reflection 
altered  his  mind.  So  he  began  very 
gently,  as  if  he  had  made  a  resolve  to 
be  kind  to  her. 

"Jean,  I  do  not  want  you  to  think  I 
have  been  spying  on  you.  Neither  do 
I  want  you  to  be  ignorant  of  the  fact 
that  I  heard  what  Carrington  has  just 
said.  I  did  hear,  word  for  word;  and, 
well,  it  was  not  altogether  a  surprise  to 
me.  I  have  known  always  that  he 


HALAMAR  29 

cared  for  you,  but  I  believed  him  too 
honorable  to  talk  so  openly  of  it. 
However,  it  makes  no  radical  differ- 
ence. It  only  brings  matters  to  a 
crisis  sooner  than  I  expected.  It  has 
been  coming  on  a  long  time  —  this 
crisis.  I  mean  that  some  things  have 
got  to  be  settled  between  you  and  me. 
Of  course  you  have  felt  this.  I  have 
known  that  you  felt  it." 

An  indescribable  change  had  come 
over  the  girl's  face,  but  he  could  not 
see  that.  He  had  pulled  his  hat  down 
over  his  eyes  so  that  he  could  see  noth- 
ing very  clearly.  He  waited  barely  a 
moment,  perhaps  expecting  her  to 
speak,  but  she  was  silent,  and  he  went 
on  again  :  — 

"Long  ago  when  I  told  my  mother 
that  you  were  the  woman  I  wanted  to 
marry,  she  said  to  me  that  you  would 
not  make  me  a  good  wife.  She  tried 
to  explain  that  we  had  been  brought  up 
in  such  different  atmospheres  that  we 
could  never  make  a  go  of  it.  You 
would  see  and  express  one  phase  of 


30  HALAMAR 

life,  I  another.  And  they  were  such 
different  phases.  I  did  not  argue  the 
point  with  her;  merely  replied  that  I 
intended  to  marry  you.  Then  my 
mother  bowed  her  head.  After  all,  I 
was  a  man  and  the  head  of  my  house, 
and  she  had  no  real  right  to  interfere. 
But  I  had  none  of  my  mother's  fears. 
I  want  you  to  understand  and  believe 
that.  The  only  thing  that  did  stand 
between  me  and  absolute  contentment 
was  Dick  Carrington.  I  saw  even  then 
what  you  did  not,  that  Dick  loved  you. 
I  also  realized  that  you  were  very  fond 
of  him,  and  I  saw  danger  in  the  attitude 
of  mind  that  you  exhibited.  Of  course 
you  meant  nothing  by  your  easy  man- 
ner of  good  fellowship.  Still  he  was  a 
bond  between  the  old  life  you  loved 
and  the  new  life  that  you  felt  strange 
in.  You  had  much  in  common  with 
him  —  much  more,  in  fact,  than  you 
had  with  me,  and  I  felt  this  and  dreaded 
it.  I  thought  the  matter  over;  it  really 
was  never  out  of  my  mind.  I  saw  a 
way  out  of  it,  but  I  did  not  like  to  sug- 


HALAMAR  31 

gest  it.  You  had  promised  to  give 
up  the  stage  entirely,  and  Carrington 
belonged  to  that  part,  and  should 
have  gone  with  it.  I  waited  for  you  to 
suggest  giving  him  up.  It  seemed  such 
a  small  thing  for  me  to  ask.  I  had 
nothing  against  the  fellow.  He  was 
gentlemanly  and  thoroughly  agreeable, 
and  I  liked  him;  but  frankly  I  was 
jealous  of  him.  I  have  always  been 
jealous  of  him,  and  as  he  says,  '  jeal- 
ousy makes  a  man  very  selfish.'  Yet 
he  seemed  to  have  every  charm  that  I 
lacked,  except  money." 

Jean  drew  back  with  a  sudden  sharp 
movement.  This  time  he  gave  her  no 
chance  to  speak,  but  went  on  talking 
quickly.  Perhaps  he  was  afraid  that  if 
he  hesitated  he  would  lose  the  courage 
to  say  what  was  in  his  mind. 

"  During  the  year  and  a  half  that  we 
have  been  married  I  have  been  think- 
ing; oh,  I  have  done  a  great  deal  of 
thinking,  and  I  have  found  out  many 
things.  First,  my  mother  was  right; 
we  do  express  the  very  extremes  of  life. 


32  HALAMAR 

We  are  absolutely  different.  You  were 
meant  to  do  great  things;  the  prosaic- 
ness  I  brought  you  into  does  not  fit 
you.  You  were  loyal  enough  to  try, 
but  it  is  of  no  use.  I  can  see  that 
now;  no  use  at  all.  You  do  not  be- 
long here,  and  it  has  brought  you 
closer  to  Carrington,  for  he  represents 
what  you  love  and  regret.  He  was  the 
one  for  you,  not  I.  I  never  was  the 
one.  He  could  and  would  have  kept 
you  where  you  fitted  and  were  con- 
tented." 

"Herbert,"  she  cried,  and  her  voice 
had  a  strange  thrill  in  it.  She  sat  up 
very  straight,  her  face  growing  white 
as  she  fully  realized  what  he  was 
saying. 

But  out  of  all  he  had  said  to  her  she 
could  gather  but  one  thought:  He  was 
ashamed  of  her.  It  was  Unbearable. 
She  did  not  notice  how  closely  he  had 
followed  her  own  words  and  ideas; 
they  sounded  so  differently,  coming 
from  another.  Worthington  had  taken 
no  notice  of  her  cry,  although  he  was 


HALAMAR  33 

watching  her.     Presently  he  went   on, 
still  hurriedly: — 

"  I  have  always  despised  men  who 
would  not  look  things  squarely  in  the 
face.  I  want  to  prove  to  both  of  us 
that  I  understand,  and  —  look — I  do 
not  want  you  to  put  a  wrong  construc- 
tion on  what  I  say.  I  am  trying  to  be 
honest,  for  I  have  no  sympathy  with 
evasions.  Besides,  in  the  end,  honesty 
always  wins.  I  know  now  that  my 
money  must  have  been  an  inducement 
because  of  your  sister.  I  am  not  say- 
ing this  because  I  blame  you.  While 
I  have  never  been  in  need  of  money, 
that  does  not  prevent  my  understand- 
ing how  people  can  need  it.  Of  course 
I  do  not  believe  that  out  of  a  purely 
personal  selfishness  you  would  have 
married  me  for  financial  reasons.  If 
you  had  had  only  yourself  to  consider, 
you  probably  never  would  have  mar- 
ried me  at  all.  But  the  mistake  has 
been  carried  far  enough.  I  am  going 
to  free  you.  Like  Carrington,  I  do 
not  believe  in  self-sacrifice.  I  shall 


34  HALAMAR 

give  you  the  protection  of  my  name  as 
long  as  you  need  that  protection,  and  I 
shall  settle  a  good  income  on  you. 
But  you  will  be  free  until  the  time 
comes  when  you  wish  to  give  up  your 
freedom  —  to  some  one  else." 

There  was  pain  in  his  voice  and  suf- 
fering in  his  face,  but  she  felt  nothing, 
understood  nothing,  except  that  she 
was  being  cast  off;  disposed  of  without 
hesitation  or  a  qualm,  as  though  she 
were  some  article  of  merchandise;  and 
all  because  he  believed  her  mercenary  ! 
And  in  love  with  Carrington!  It  was 
really  this  last  that  stung  her. 

She  was  too  proud  to  defend  herself 
even  if  she  could  have  spoken,  but  her 
voice  had  left  her,  and  her  thoughts 
were  too  chaotic  to  talk  logically  or 
rationally.  To  be  sure,  she  could  have 
told  him  that  she  loved  him,  but  it 
was  no  time  to  speak  of  love.  At  least 
this  was  her  feeling.  Perhaps  if  she 
had  wholly  understood  his  mood,  she 
would  have  known  that  it  was  the  pre- 
cise moment  to  speak.  But  it  seemed 


HALAMAR  35 

like  flaunting  in  his  face  what  he  would 
not  believe.  He  might  even  think  it 
was  a  last  hope  resorted  to  because  she 
was  afraid  to  face  the  future  without 
his  money  and  the  luxury  it  brought. 

So  she  kept  still,  and  his  blood  froze 
and  everything  grew  black  about  him. 
In  his  agony  to  have  her  deny  all  that 
he  had  said,  he  misunderstood  her 
silence,  as  men  always  misunderstand 
when  they  suffer.  Until  he  was  wait- 
ing for  her  to  speak,  he  had  been  un- 
conscious of  how  much  he  had  said 
only  to  have  her  contradict  and  dis- 
prove. 

"Jean,  I  shall  miss  you  so."  He 
put  his  hands  across  his  eyes.  His 
voice  sounded  like  a  cry. 

"Don't,"  she  said  lightly,  and  her 
voice  was  higher  than  usual.  "It  is 
absurd  to  miss  a  person;  especially  the 
person  that  you  'send  away  from  you 
as  unfit  to  occupy  the  position  you 
have  put  her  in.  There  are  many 
women  more  fit.  You  see  I  have 
thought  on  this  subject  too.  There 


36  HALAMAR 

are  women  who  cook,  and  dust,  and 
sweep,  and  like  upheavals  and  dry 
toast  —  perhaps  even  eat  it.  I  mean 
the  toast.  Let  your  mother  choose 
your  next  wife.  Never  go  into  a  sec- 
ond matrimonial  venture  without  her 
help.  You  can  not  but  have  confi- 
dence in  her  after  this  wonderful  proof 
of  her  foresight,  or  rather  her  fore- 
knowledge. You  must  marry  a  woman 
who  can  keep  the  ghosts  of  your  ances- 
tors quiet  in  the  celestial  sphere.  I 
should  rouse  them  to  despair.  Fancy 
your  mother  trying  to  enjoy  Heaven 
while  I  was  keeping  her  house.  I  am 
going  up  to  her  house  now  to  pack. 
I  do  not  need  a  week's  notice  like  a 
serving  maid,"  and  she  started  up. 
The  move  was  an  abrupt  one  as  though 
she  followed  out  some  sudden  deter- 
mination of  her  mind. 

As  she  hurried  away  the  sun  went 
under  a  cloud.  The  brightness,  too, 
had  left  her  face.  Or  it  may  have 
been  that  the  shadow  of  that  cloud 
reflected  itself  there.  Worthington  made 


HALAMAR  37 

no  effort  to  detain  her.  He  was  hardly 
conscious  of  what  had  happened.  He 
knew  that  once,  half  way  up  the  bluff, 
she  stumbled  as  though  she  did  not  see 
well,  but  even  then,  he  had  no  realiza- 
tion of  matters.  She  went  on  and  up 
swiftly,  and  finally  disappeared. 

As  he  sat  thinking  it  over,  he  could 
not  grasp  it  all.  He  knew  she  had  said 
nothing  and  that  he  had  said  much, 
yet  not  what  he  had  intended  to  say. 
At  least  he  had  not  put  the  thing  right. 
He  had  meant  to  be  thoroughly  unself- 
ish and  very  kind,  but  instead  of  that 
he  had  given  her  the  impression  of 
wanting  to  be  rid  of  her.  This  much 
was  clear.  Still,  even  though  his 
words  sounded  that  way,  she  should 
have  divined  how  wretched  he  was. 
Surely  by  this  time,  having  been  his 
wife  so  long,  she  ought  to  know  that 
he  loved  her. 

The  thought  that  he  had  made  her 
suffer  was  becoming  unendurable,  for 
his  heart  was  very  tender  toward  her. 
If  anyone  had  tried  to  explain  that  his 


38  HALAMAR 

neglect  of  Jean  had  caused  her  a 
moment's  pain,  he  would  have  received 
the  information  with  chilly  incredulity. 

After  a  little,  Worthington's  thoughts 
went  to  Ruskin.  He  had  an  immense 
admiration  for  that  man.  The  nobil- 
ity of  Ruskin's  sacrifice  had  appealed 
to  him  years  before,  and  although  he 
would  not  have  acknowledged  it  even 
to  himself,  he  had  patterned  largely 
after  that  sacrifice  in  this  episode  with 
Jean.  Only  it  had  turned  out  more 
seriously  than  he  had  expected. 

Worthington  had  frequently  asserted 
that  unfitness  in  unmarried  life  and 
continued  suffering  from  that  unfitness 
was  as  vulgar  as  it  was  unnecessary. 
He  had  been  brought  up  to  shun  vul- 
garity as  commonplace  and  low,  and 
no  matter  what  else  the  Worthingtons 
might  have  been,  there  was  nothing  in 
their  pedigree  that  belonged  to  the  un- 
classed.  So  in  a  way  he  was  carrying 
out  a  theory,  perhaps  a.  hobby,  but  now 
that  it  had  been  tried,  he  was  constantly 
being  brought  back  to  that  first  conclu- 


HALAMAR  39 

sion.  Somehow  he  had  not  arranged 
things  as  romantically  as  Ruskin  had. 

For  a  long  time  the  man  sat  there 
on  the  sand;  his  thoughts  miserable 
and  morbid;  his  heart  heavy  and  over- 
burdened. 

The  first  shadows  of  evening  were 
coming  across  the  land  when  he  finally 
arose.  He  was  stiff  and  sore,  but  he 
worked  his  way  up  the  bank  as  Jean 
had  hours  before.  He  decided  that 
they  must  have  another  talk.  He 
would  ask  Jean  if  she  really  preferred 
Carrington  or  freedom.  This  made 
him  feel  easier,  for  he  knew  well 
enough  what  she  would  say.  In  the 
depths  of  his  heart  Herbert  Worthing- 
ton  was  very  sure  of  his  wife,  but  jeal- 
ousy is  a  thick  crust  to  break  through. 

His  mother  was  standing  on  the 
porch  waiting  for  him.  She  shielded 
her  eyes  with  one  hand;  in  the  other 
she  held  the  binoculars. 

"Herbert,"  she  called,  "you  are 
very  late.  It  is  not  wise  to  sit  on  the 
sand  so  long.  I  have  been  uneasy." 


40^  HALAMAR 

"I  was  with  Jean,"  he  replied,  for- 
getting how  long  it  was  since  she  had 
left  him. 

His  mother  looked  at  him  curi- 
ously. "Jean  came  up  hours  ago. 
She  left  on  the  five  o'clock  train.  Do 
you  know  where  she  has  gone  ?  " 


III. 

By  the  time  Jean  reached  Boston, 
the  wind  had  veered  abruptly  from  the 
west  to  the  east,  and  was  blowing  in 
sharply  from  the  sea.  It  stung  her 
face  and  she  gave  an  involuntary  shiver 
as  she  stepped  out  of  the  station  to  call 
a  cab.  By  hurrying  she  could  catch 
the  night  express  to  New  York.  She 
explained  this  to  the  driver,  had  her 
trunk  put  on  the  box  beside  him,  and 
promised  him  an  extra  fare  if  he  suc- 
ceeded in  getting  her  to  the  other  sta- 
tion in  time. 

There  were  no  definite  plans  in  her 
mind;  only  an  intense  desire  to  get 
away  from  Boston.  It  was  a  city  that 
she  had  never  wholly  liked;  now  it  had 
become  a  place  of  dread  from  the  very 
strength  of  its  associations.  She  real- 
ized that  she  could  never  experience 
any  further  peace  of  mind  in  this  home 

41 


4-2  HALAMAR 

of  her  married  life,  yet,  as  she  thought 
of  it,  there  came  more  of  resentment 
than  sorrow  at  the  circumstances  which 
were  forcing  her  away.  It  was  the 
unfairness  of  the  thing.  She  had  been 
very  devoted  to  Herbert.  Her  devo- 
tion had  carried  her  to  such  lengths 
that  she  had  never  been  quite  happy 
unless  he  were  with  her.  He  knew 
this,  too.  Now  she  was  leaving  him; 
putting  him  away  out  of  her  life.  No 
one  could  tell  what  the  end  might  be. 

She  went  over  this  again  and  again 
all  through  that  drive,  and  loneliness 
increased  upon  her  until  she  was  over- 
whelmed with  the  burden  of  it. 

When  Jean  was  finally  settled  on  the 
train  it  began  to  rain.  The  gloom  out- 
side expressed  the  gloom  of  her  own 
thoughts,  and  in  a  way,  was  comfort- 
ing. The  weather  at  times  is  an  excel- 
lent sympathizer.  She  sat  close  by  the 
window,  and  people  watching  her  would 
have  thought  her  intent  upon  the  dreary 
landscape  that  spread  itself  like  a  map 
from  the  car  window  into  the  distance; 


HALAMAR  43 

but  she  was  doing  nothing  of  the  sort. 
She  was  staring  anywhere,  everywhere, 
but  seeing  nothing.  As  it  grew  dark, 
so  dark  that  the  country  was  a  blur, 
and  the  glass  reflected  her  own  image, 
she  was  still  staring. 

There  is  something  uncanny  about 
getting  into  a  large  city  in  the  early 
morning.  The  vague  mutterings  and 
stretchings  and  noisy  yawns  of  an 
awakening  creature  are  awesome.  Jean 
left  the  train  as  the  sun  was  sending  its 
first  rays  through  the  mist  that  came  in 
from  the  sea  and  drifted  across  the 
city.  She  groped  her  way  out  of  the 
smoky  station  into  the  vapory  uncer- 
tainty of  the  streets,  and  found  herself 
missing  Herbert  again.  Even  here  in 
her  old  camping  ground  his  absence 
seemed  unnatural.  Married  life  had 
taken  all  feeling  of  independence  from 
her.  She  experienced  a  sense  of  grati- 
tude that,  added  to  all  the  rest  of  her 
unhappiness,  there  was  not  the  hope- 
lessness of  coming  alone  into  a  strange 


44  HALAMAR 

land.  For,  after  all,  New  York  was  her 
home.  She  was  also  thankful  that  she 
had  money  enough  for  present  needs. 

She  bargained  with  the  man  who 
drove  her  to  the  hotel,  and  she  had  a 
distinct  understanding  with  the  clerk 
as  to  the  price  of  her  room.  It  had 
been  so  long  since  she  had  been 
obliged  to  practice  the  small  economies 
of  life  that  it  seemed  odd. 

"I  expect,"  she  thought  to  herself, 
as  she  unpacked  her  things,  "  that  I 
shall  be  reduced  to  a  room  the  size  of 
a  small  closet,  and  a  chafing  dish,  be- 
fore I  get  through  with  it.  There  is 
no  denying  that  money  is  a  great  factor 
in  life." 

She  began  spreading  her  things 
around  one  by  one.  It  is  remarkable 
how  a  few  silver  toilet  articles,  some 
pictures  and  a  book  or  two  can  change 
the  appearance  of  a  room.  She  stood 
for  a  few  seconds  critically  contemplat- 
ing the  rejuvenation,  but  evidently  her 
mind  was  elsewhere,  for  presently  she 
sat  down,  saying  disconsolately:  "I 


HALAMAR  45 

must  find  something  to  do.  I  certainly 
will  not  take  one  cent  that  belongs 
to  him." 

This  thought  of  his  money  moved 
her  strongly.  It  had  become  dreadful 
to  her,  for  it  would  always  stand  with 
her  as  a  representation  of  ill  feeling  and 
sorrow  and  separation.  Her  heart  beat 
heavily,  and  she  caught  her  breath  in 
a  sob.  She  had  realized  so  little  just 
what  had  happened;  perhaps  because 
she  had  not  stopped  to  think.  It  had 
come  so  suddenly.  But  now  as  she 
stood  there,  a  sensation  of  agony  came 
over  her.  She  pressed  her  hands  to- 
gether so  tightly  that  the  fingers  inter- 
locked and  hurt.  "  It  is  the  forever- 
ness,"  she  cried  out  sharply.  It  was 
in  this  way  that  the  understanding 
came  to  her  of  what  this  separation 
meant.  For  a  long  time  she  sat  still 
in  her  chair,  absorbed  in  the  dreary 
conception  of  what  the  future  held 
for  her. 

"  I  will  write  to  Dick,"  she  thought; 
then  her  face  flushed  with  a  guilty  re- 


46  HALAMAR 

membrance  of  what  Herbert  had  said. 
But  it  had  changed  the  current  of  her 
revery  and  eased  the  tension  of  her 
overstrained  nerves.  She  was  very 
pale  and  very  tired  when  she  finally 
rang  the  bell  and  ordered  her  coffee 
served  in  her  room.  Her  energy  had 
deserted  her,  and  she  had  no  wish  to 
meet  the  new  faces  that  would  stare  at 
her  in  the  breakfast  room. 

Jean  Worthington  was  not  a  person 
of  hesitations,  but  rather  eminently 
active,  and  the  more  she  thought  over 
the  situation,  the  more  certain  she  be- 
came that  on  Lucie's  account,  an  apart- 
ment would  be  necessary.  She  had 
seen  enough  of  hotels  to  know  that 
they  were  not  desirable  as  an  abode  for 
a  young  and  pretty  girl.  So  she  hunted 
up  the  place  where  she  had  lived  be- 
fore. It  was  on  Forty-second  street, 
and  not  at  all  a  quiet  neighborhood, 
but  it  had  been  convenient  to  the  thea- 
tre. Now  it  seemed  to  her  like  an  old 
friend.  The  very  shops  around  it  were 
homelike;  even  some  of  the  faces  were 


HALAMAR 

familiar,  and  it  was  all  so  little  changed 
and  so  homelike  that  she  grew  more 
cheerful  and  light-hearted,  and  greeted 
the  old  janitor  with  an  enthusiasm  that 
thawed  his  dignity. 

The  building  itself  was  of  a  forbid- 
ding aspect.  It  was  stiff  and  straight, 
and  the  brick  had  changed  color  in 
spots,  but  when  Jean  found  that  the 
apartment  above  her  old  one  was  for 
rent,  she  did  not  hesitate  a  moment. 
It  seemed  like  a  gift  of  good  omen. 
It  was  furnished,  too,  rather  gaudily, 
and  not  at  all  in  good  taste ;  still  it 
accomplished  a  great  deal  in  saving 
expense. 

"  You  '11  find  changes  here,"  the  jani- 
tor announced.  "The  top  floor  is  took 
by  four  young  men,  and  one  of  'em 
writes  plays,  sort  of  in  your  line  of 
work.  Perhaps  you  will  like  to  know 
him.  They  're  going  to  stay  some 
time,  if  their  money  holds  out." 

Jean  expressed  her  pleasure  at  know- 
ing they  had  hopes  of  staying  so  long, 
and  thought  perhaps  she  would  like  to 


48  HALAMAR 

meet  the  one  who  was  in  her  line  of 
work.  Then  she  added,  as  an  after 
thought,  that  as  she  was  living  quietly 
now,  she  did  not  expect  to  meet  many 
people,  or  entertain  extensively. 

After  she  had  told  him  of  her  deci- 
sion to  take  the  rooms,  she  talked  about 
the  arrangements  for  cleaning,  and  the 
payment  of  the  rent.  When  there  was 
positively  nothing  more  to  be  said,  she 
went  for  a  walk.  For  a  time  she  kept 
to  the  cross  streets,  because  in  spite 
of  her  determination  to  practice  small 
economies,  she  did  not  find  Fifth  ave- 
nue congenial.  The  beautiful  things 
she  saw  filled  her  with  a  sort  of  dis- 
couragement, for  there  were  mental 
comparisons  that  would  crop  up. 

"  I  must  have  very  expensive  tastes," 
she  thought.  "Cheap  things  are  not 
at  all  attractive.  I  hate  cheap  things. 
Yes,  I  know  that  I  am  extravagant  and 
selfish."  And  the  walk  became  so 
much  of  a  failure  that  she  went  back 
to  the  hotel,  depressed  and  uncertain. 

She  was  taking  the  pins  out  of  her 


HALAMAR  49 

hat,  and  at  the  same  time  looking  at 
Herbert's  photograph,  when  a  bell-boy 
brought  her  a  card.  She  held  it  up  to 
read  her  husband's  name,  and  her  first 
thought  was  the  oddity  of  having  his 
presence  announced  to  her  in  this  way. 
Then  she  wondered  why  he  had  fol- 
lowed her. 

"  I  will  be  down  in  a  moment,"  she 
said,  her  eyes  still  on  the  card.  After 
the  boy  had  gone,  she  laid  the  bit  of 
pasteboard  down  gently,  and  put  the 
pins  in  her  hat  again. 

A  woman  is  always  more  self-pos- 
sessed than  a  man.  She  found  him 
pacing  the  floor  rather  wildly,  his 
hands  nervous  and  twitching.  Jean, 
on  the  contrary,  was  very  quiet.  She 
greeted  him  with  a  calm  smile  that 
loosened  the  frenzied  grip  with  which 
he  had  seized  her  hand  and  froze  the 
hope  that  had  been  growing  warm 
within  him. 

He  looked  years  older.  She  noticed 
this  at  once,  though  naturally  she  said 
nothing.  Nor  did  Jean's  eyes  flinch 


50  HALAMAR 

when  they  met  his,  and  no  one,  least  of 
all  he,  would  have  guessed  at  the  long- 
ing that  had  come  over  her  and  the 
tumult  that  raged  within  her. 

He  had  come  to  ask  forgiveness  ;  to 
beg  her  to  go  back.  But  as  he  looked 
at  her  he  had  a  feeling  that  the  coming 
was  ill-timed.  So  the  words  and  even 
the  thought  died  unspoken. 

"Jean,  I  have  been  so  worried  —  so, 
unhappy,"  he  began,  brokenly.  The 
words  were  so  different  from  what  she 
expected  to  hear  that  she  answered  at 
random. 

"  Wh.y  ?  "  she  asked.  "  I  have  been 
very  proper.  I  do  not  forget  that  I 
bear  your  name.  I  expect  to  leave 
here  next  week  and  go  to  my  apart- 
ment. You  remember  the  old  apart- 
ment, of  course.  We  used  to  be  happy 
there.  The  one  I  have  now  is  on  the 
floor  above.  It  is  all  rather  strange, 
isn't  it?" 

"Jean,  we  are  both  foolish  —  both 
wrong.  It  has  been  too  insignificant  a 
thing  to  cause  a  separation." 


HALAMAR  51 

"I  had  no  wish  for  a  separation. 
You  found  I  didn't  fit,  and  you  were 
quite  right ;  I  did  n't.  I  saw  it  as 
plainly  as  you  did.  I  had  no  thought 
of  such  a  remedy  as  this;  still  I  knew 
there  must  be  a  change." 

The  man  caught  at  this  as  a  gleam 
of  hope. 

' '  What  change,  Jean  ?  What  was  the 
change  you  wished  ?  "  he  begged. 

"A  home  of  my  own.  A  place 
where  I  could  be  the  mistress  absolute 
and  complete.  Your  mother  dislikes 
and  disapproves  of  me,  and,  Herbert,  I 
am  not  fond  of  her.  Why  should  I 
be  ?  She  has  belittled  me  and  insulted 
me  from  the  moment  I  entered  her 
house  as  your  wife.  She  has  had  no 
consideration  for  me  ;  showed  no  kind- 
ness toward  me.  Neither  on  my  ac- 
count, nor  for  Lucie,  would  I  consent 
to  live  with  her  any  longer." 

"  I  think  you  misjudge  her.  Still,  a 
home  like  this,  Jean,  I  could  not  prom- 
ise it,  now.  It  would  leave  my  mother 
so  alone.  She  depends  on  me,  you 


52  HALAMAR 

know  that,  and  she  is  my  mother. 
You  make  it  very  hard  for  me."  He 
hesitated  a  moment,  then  he  asked  sud- 
denly: "If  I  could  make  this  arrange- 
ment that  you  ask,  would  you  agree  to 
one  thing  ?  " 

"What?" 

"That  Carrington  should  never 
come  into  that  home  of  yours  ?  "  He 
put  the  question  feverishly  and  with- 
out looking  at  her.  But  she  watched 
him  intently  —  so  intently  that  pres- 
ently she  forced  his  eyes  to  meet  hers. 

"  No,"  she  said. 

A  dull  color  suffused  his  face.  ' '  After 
all,  this  separation  is  best,"  he  burst 
out  angrily,  forgetting  his  purpose  in 
coming.  "  It  is  no  mistake.  It  is  not 
trivial,  either.  But  be  quite  sure  on 
one  point,  Jean,  this  thing  can  never 
be  healed  by  concessions  on  my  part 
alone.  You  have  something  to  do  — 
something  to  sacrifice  as  well  as  I. 
And  the  sacrifice  of  that  man  is  the 
thing  that  I  demand." 

"It  is  not  necessary  to  go  all  over 


HALAMAR  53 

this  again,"  said  Jean  wearily.  "I 
have  not  demanded  anything  from  you, 
neither  have  I  asked  any  sacrifice  or 
concession.  I  wish  simply  what  I  be- 
lieve is  right  and  fair.  After  all,  I 
should  come  before  your  mother,  you 
know.  I  am  willing,  and  always  have 
been,  to  do  anything  for  you  that  is 
reasonable.  When  you  demand  some- 
thing foolish  I  see  no  crime  in  refusing. 
Dick  is  a  dear,  good  friend.  I  shall 
not  give  him  up  to  satisfy  an  unjust 
suspicion.  You  have  nothing  else 
against  him." 

There  came  a  pause.  Herbert  Worth- 
ington  stood  awkwardly  before  her. 
A  belated  remembrance  of  Ruskin  came 
to  him  again. 

"Have  you  money  enough  for  the 
present  ?  I  will  open  an  account  for 
you  to-day  at  the  National  bank,"  he 
said,  tactlessly. 

She  looked  up  at  him,  and  her  eyes 
flashed  fire.  "I  would  rather  starve 
than  take  one  cent  that  belongs  to  the 
Worthingtons.  I  can  never  express  to 


54  HALAMAR 

you  how  I  loathe  your  money,"  she 
said. 

And  he  left  her  with  the  breach 
widened  instead  of  bridged,  as  he  had 
intended,  and  as  she  had  hoped. 


IV 

When  Jean  took  possession  of  the 
apartment,  the  furnishings  seemed  more 
unendurable  than  ever.  She  had  a 
distinct  notion  that  they  were  loud 
enough  to  openly  proclaim  their  infe- 
riority, and  while  she  assured  herself 
that  she  was  not  at  all  ashamed  of 
having  to  economize,  she  did  not  feel 
that  this  made  it  necessary  to  announce 
her  poverty  by  surrounding  herself  with 
vulgar  imitations  of  good  things. 

"  Perhaps  I  was  rather  precipitate  in 
taking  this  apartment.  By  the  time  I 
have  packed  away  all  the  things  I  don't 
like,  there  won't  be  much  left  but  the 
walls  and  the  beds,"  she  mused,  scowl- 
ing at  some  huge  dishes  of  artificial 
fruit  that  stood  in  the  dining  room. 
Beside  these  were  some  platters,  great, 
ungainly  things  with  fish  and  game 
done  in  porcelain.  The  animals  were 

55 


56  HALAMAR 

life  size,  and  were  spread  out  on  their 
sides  in  stony  and  uncomfortable  at- 
titudes. 

She  concluded  to  start  the  re-arrang- 
ing with  these,  and  after  they  were 
safely  hidden  in  the  depths  of  a  large 
box  which  the  janitor  had  brought  her, 
she  collected  the  bunches  of  paper 
flowers  of  marvelous  hues,  and  the 
queer  plaques  and  strange  impossible 
pictures  with  hideous  gilt  frames  and 
all  the  other  things  that  were  madden- 
ing in  color  and  design.  She  spent  an 
entire  morning  wrapping  all  these 
things  with  excelsior  and  placing  them 
cautiously  on  the  fish  and  game. 

"It  is  a  combination  that  could 
easily  cause  a  spontaneous  combus- 
tion," she  remarked  to  the  janitor  who 
had  come  to  nail  on  the  cover.  But 
he  did  not  understand. 

After  they  had  been  taken  away, 
Jean  sighed  with  actual  relief,  although 
there  was  still  a  great  deal  t  to  be  de- 
sired. The  drawing  room  paper,  for 
instance,  with  its  black  background 


HALAMAR  57 

and  splotchy  pink  roses  grinning  all 
over  it,  was  neither  pleasant  nor  natural. 
"  I  wonder  who  could  have  had  this 
place  and  what  the  man  did  for  a  liv- 
ing, "she  said  aloud.  Just  then  there 
came  a  preliminary  knock  at  the  door 
followed  almost  immediately  by  the 
entrance  of  the  knocker.  The  man 
walked  in  blandly. 

"Well,  Hal,  getting  fixed? "  he  said, 
and  from  the  way  he  spoke  one  would 
have  thought  that  he  belonged  there. 
But  she  looked  up  at  him,  startled. 

"Dick,  how  did  you  know  I  was 
here  ?  "  she  asked. 

"The  janitor.  What  a  devil  of  a 
wall !  "  he  said,  gazing  at  the  paper. 

"But  the  janitor — How  did  you 
happen  here?  He  could  n't  have  sent 
you  word  unless  he  knew  you."  She 
was  not  definite,  but  that  did  not  inter- 
fere with  his  understanding. 

"That 's  just  it.  A  mutual  acquaint- 
ance. He  knows  me  and  I  know  him. 
I  live  up  here —  three  other  fellows  who 
are  not  quite  sane  and  I." 


58  HALAMAR 

"The  four  young  men,  and  one 
writes  plays,"  repeated  Jean,  remem- 
bering the  janitor's  information. 

"  Omar  writes  plays,"  assented  Car- 
rington.  "  Hal,  what  are  you  going  to 
do  with  this  wall?  You  certainly  are 
not  endeavoring  to  live  it  down." 

Carrington  went  up  to  it  and  felt  of 
it  gingerly.  It  was  like  him  to  ignore 
events.  It  was  like  old  times,  too,  his 
wandering  around  in  her  rooms  and 
suggesting  things.  For  the  first  time 
since  she  had  left  her  husband's  home, 
Jean  felt  easy.  But  there  was  a  hint 
of  wistfulness  in  her  eyes  that  Carring- 
ton saw  and  understood. 

"Did  you  know  the  people  who 
lived  here  ?  I  was  just  wondering 
about  them. "  She  was  falling  into  his 
mood. 

"  Certainly.  He  was  a  real  estate 
man,  and  she,  well,  she  was  a  woman 
with  a  dog.  I  should  like  to  write 
about  a  woman  and  a  dog.  It  would 
be  the  great  American  novel  that  is  so 
talked  of.  They  hated  us  —  those  two. " 


HALAMAR  59 

"Why?"  asked  Jean,  pressing  down 
on  a  fragile,  three-legged  chair  to  see 
if  it  was  safe. 

"  Probably  because  we  hated  them. 
Hal,  for  Heaven's  sake  tell  me  what 
you  are  going  to  do  with  this  wall  ?  " 
He  thumped  a  bunch  of  buds,  then 
rubbed  his  fist. 

"  I  shall  leave  it  to  you  and  the 
other  three,  Dick,"  she  replied.  Then 
she  stood  facing  him.  She  felt  that 
something  ought  to  be  said;  not  much, 
but  something.  "  Be  quite  honest; 
have  I  been  stubborn  or  foolish  ?  "  she 
began. 

"No,"  he  answered,  fiercely.  Be- 
fore he  came  in  he  had  made  up  his 
mind  to  be  strictly  neutral  both  in 
voice  and  action.  But  almost  immedi- 
ately this  resolve  was  forgotten. 

"But  for  Lucie's  sake;  shouldn't  I 
have  gone  back  for  her  sake  ?  I  don't 
want  her  to  see  the  unhappy  side  of 
life,  nor  do  I  want  her  '  bumped,'  and 
I  can't  give  her  much  else  here.  It 
won't  be  as  it  would  have  been  in  Bos- 


60  HALAMAR 

ton;  I  mean  the  people,  and  she  ex- 
pected that."  Her  voice  was  anxious, 
and  she  was  very  conscious  that  to  any- 
one else  this  communication  would 
have  appeared  vague  and  indefinite. 
For  this  reason  it  was  a  relief  to  talk 
to  a  man  who  understood  without 
details.  She  felt  incapable  of  giving 
details  about  this  trouble. 

" There 's  honor  among  thieves,"  he 
answered,  solemnly,  "  and  while  we  are 
not  exactly  thieves,  still  we  are  honor- 
able. Lucie  may  not  meet  the  people 
who  do  society,  but  she  will  know  the 
ones  who  do  things,  and  of  the  two, 
Hal,  I  prefer  the  latter.  They  may 
not  possess  such  intelligence  of  man- 
ner, but  their  intelligence  of  morals  is 
larger.  You  will  find  that  the  child 
will  be  very  safe,  and,  if  she  has  sense, 
very  happy  and  contented,  too." 

Jean  gazed  steadily  at  him  for  an 
instant,  but  the  expression  of  solemnity 
did  not  leave  his  face.  It  restored  her 
confidence  and  set  her  right  in  her 
mind.  At  once  she  left  the  subject  and 


HALAMAR  61 

asked  about  the  other  three.  Who 
they  were  and  what. 

Carrington  turned  his  back  to  the 
wall,  and  deciding  that  his  length  and 
weight  were  too  great  for  safety  else- 
where, sat  down  on  a  hassock,  facing 
the  girl. 

"  We  joined  forces  because  we  were 
too  poor  to  live  separately;  but  instead 
of  four  we  are  really  three.  Iky  Mar- 
ston  and  Jo  Manvel  don't  go  singly. 
They're  collective.  They  write  —  col- 
laborate. They  can't  think  apart  be- 
cause they  never  have,  and  there  is  a 
good  deal  in  habit.  They  are  homely; 
so  excessively  homely  that  they  keep  to- 
gether to  buoy  each  other  up.  They 
have  buoyed  each  other  up  in  this  way 
since  they  were  boys.  The  result  is 
that  they  think  alike,  act  alike,  have 
the  same  view  point,  and  are  good  stuff. 
They  are  sensitive  and  shy.  I  call  them 
'my  plants.'  But  they  will  make  a 
future.  One  book  has  been  successful 
—  for  the  publisher. 

"Then   Omar  —  he  is   all   they  are 


62  HALAMAR 

not  and  some  that  they  are.  He  is  the 
playwright.  He  has  three  good  manu- 
scripts, and  is  at  work  on  a  fourth, 
but  he  has  no  pull.  No  manager  will 
accept  those  plays  either  singly  or  in  a 
bunch." 

"Why?"  put  in  Jeari.  She  had 
picked  up  some  mending  and  was 
drawing  her  chair  nearer  the  window. 

"  Grewsome  and  too  hard  to  act. 
That 's  what  they  say,  though  I  believe 
it  is  merely  an  excuse.  But  he  is  good 
stuff,  too,  only  poor,  devilish  poor. 

"  That  brings  it  up  to  me:  painter 
at  times,  dauber  and  dreamer  mostly, 
also  poor — except  during  spells.  My 
money  comes  like  malaria,  intermit- 
tently. In  fact,  we  all  get  our  money 
that  way.  That 's  how  we  get  on,  for 
we  don't  all  receive  at  once.  If  you 
will  give  me  something  to  throw,  I  will 
bring  the  other  fellows  down.  I  told 
them  what  I  expected  them  to  do  if 
they  heard  a  thump  under  their  feet. 
They  are  probably  listening  for  it  now; 
I  can't  hurt  the  ceiling,  you  know." 


HALAMAR  63 

He  looked  about  him,  but  seeing 
nothing  available,  he  took  off  one  of 
his  slippers  and  then  stood  up.  Three 
times  he  threw  it  up  against  the  ceil- 
ing. After  the  second  whack  there  was 
the  sound  above  them  of  moving  feet, 
and  by  the  time  Carrington's  slipper 
was  back  in  its  proper  place  and  he 
had  gotten  out  to  the  door,  the  three 
men  stood  there.  Omar  was  in  front, 
Iky  and  Jo,  side  by  side,  behind. 


Carrington  was  not  an  advocate  of 
formality,  so  he  introduced  the  men  by 
an  announcement.  "My  friends, "he 
remarked,  accompanying  the  words 
with  a  sweeping  gesture  that  included 
them  all.  He  believed  this  was  quite 
sufficient  until  he  saw  the  puzzled  look 
on  Jean's  face.  Then  he  individualized 
by  pronouncing  with  great  solemnity 
the  name  of  each  and  his  profession. 
There  was  such  a  subtle  air  of  good 
fellowship  about  everything  Carrington 
did,  that  it  put  people  at  ease  in  spite 
of  themselves. 

Jean  met  the  men  in  the  same 
spirit  in  which  she  had  been  presented, 
and  laughed  so  contagiously  at  the 
introduction  that  they  all  caught  the 
infection  and  laughed  with  her.  This 
placed  them  on  a  good  basis  and  made 
Iky  and  Jo  feel  singularly  personal. 

64 


HALAMAR  65 

They  advanced  separately  to  shake 
hands,  and  even  forgot  for  the  moment 
that  here  was  a  new  person  to  become 
accustomed  to  their  plainness. 

"How  did  the  thump  sound?" 
asked  Carrington,  as  they  followed 
Jean  into  the  parlor. 

"  Delicate,"  said  Iky,  and  his  voice 
was  gentle  and  low.  "Your  boot?" 

"  No,  slipper,"  replied  Dick.  Then 
with  a  wave  of  his  arms  he  called  atten- 
tion to  the  wall.  "It's  been  put  in 
our  hands  —  this.  What  shall  we  do 
with  it?" 

"  I  '11  lend  my  plays.  I  think  I  have 
manuscript  enough  to  cover  it,"  sug- 
gested Omar. 

"  It  would  queer  the  house.  Won't 
do,"  answered  Dick.  "We  would 
have  the  janitor  telling  stories  about 
headless  bodies  and  drowned  women." 

"  Plaster  the  manuscripts  on  loosely, 
then  pull  'em  off  when  the  wall  begins 
to  creak.  You  'd  find  the  paper  pale 
with  horror,  and  a  pale  background 
with  pink  buds  wouldn't  be  bad."  Jo 

5 


66  HALAMAR 

spoke  quickly  and  ended  abruptly  with 
his  voice  still  on  the  upward  inflection. 
It  gave  Jean  a  feeling  of  uncertainty. 

"  Paint  it,  Dicky,"  put  in  Iky. 

"I  could  turn  it  into  a  thunder 
storm,"  assented  Dick,  "except  that 
it  would  keep  Jean  in  a  state  of  worry 
for  fear  the  furniture  would  get  wet. 
It  would  n't  be  easy,  either,  living  in  a 
mackintosh.  They  smell  disagreeably 
and  take  away  one's  appetite.  Speak- 
ing of  appetite,  can't  we  have  some  tea, 
Hal?  Where's  your  caddy?  Iky, 
take  the  kettle  out  and  fill  it." 

Carrington  and  Iky  set  about  making 
the  tea,  and  Omar  and  Jean  went  to 
toast  bread.  So  Jo,  to  be  useful,  set 
a  table  and  hunted  around  in  impossi- 
ble places  for  cups. 

"May  I  read  one  of  your  plays  some 
day?"  asked  Jean,  looking  up  from 
the  stove  and  smiling  at  Omar. 

"  Omar  was  cutting  a  loaf  of  bread. 
He  gouged  it  now  in  his  enthusiasm. 

"Oh,  will  you?"  he  cried.  "  It  is 
the  one  thing  I  would  have  asked. 


HALAMAR  67 

You  know  so  well,  and  I  have  never 
had  anyone  to  judge  for  me."  His 
face  flushed  and  his  eyes  grew  very 
eager. 

"  I  am  not  a  good  judge,  because  I 
can  never  get  away  from  my  own  feel- 
ings. If  a  thing  appeals  to  me  I  like 
it,  even  when  it  may  present  very  few 
good  points  to  anyone  else.  You  must 
not  count  on  my  judgment." 

"But  you  know  whether  it  will  act 
or  not.  Oh,  I  should  like  to  write  a 
play  for  you!  "  he  exclaimed. 

A  strange  look  crossed  her  face,  but 
just  then  Carrington's  voice  came  roll- 
ing in  to  them  from  the  other  room. 
"  What's  happening  to  the  toast?  The 
tea  is  strong  enough  to  walk,  and  Jo  is 
going  stark  mad  over  the  cups.  Hurry 
up!  " 

Omar  stacked  the  bread  that  was 
still  untoasted  into  a  pyramid,  and 
hurried  in,  balancing  the  plate  cau- 
tiously. Jean  followed,  carrying  a 
small  pitcher  of  cream. 

"  I  know  who   cut   this,"  said    Iky, 


68  HALAMAR 

eyeing   the    plate   as    Omar  sat  down. 

"  What  characters  were  you  slaugh- 
tering?" asked  Dick.  "  I  have  never 
spoken  of  it  before  because  I  am  sensi- 
tive, but  I  feel  like  a  cannibal  when 
Omar  has  charge  of  the  culinary  de- 
partment. He  never  manipulates  food. 
It 's  always  people.  He  works  out  all 
his  tragedies  that  way.  The  thought 
is  ghastly,  and  we  all  know  that 
thoughts  are  things." 

They  all  acquiesced  promptly,  al- 
though none  of  them  was  quite  certain 
what  Carrington  was  attempting  to  say. 
Presently  he  looked  at  the  men  who 
were  standing  around  awkwardly,  and 
advised  them  to  take  seats  on  the  floor 
to  save  the  chairs.  At  once  Jean  re- 
marked that  the  furniture  was  insured 
This  relieved  Dick's  mind,  and  they 
sat  down  stiffly  on  the  miniature  ar- 
rangements that  served  for  chairs,  and 
wondered  who  would  break  down  first. 
They  all  took  their  tea  clear.  Jean 
looked  up  curiously.  "What  an 
idea!  "  she  said. 


HALAMAR  69 

"  Saves  money,"  announced  Jo.  At 
least  Jean  took  it  for  an  announcement, 
although  Jo's  voice  rose  upward  and 
floated  away,  without  falling.  "  We 
like  it  now." 

After  tea  the  men,  apparently  of 
one  accord,  arose  and  standing  close 
together,  broke  into  song  —  a  sere- 
nade. Dick  led  and  they  sang  in 
time,  but  the  tone  and  tune  varied. 

"I  believe  in  music,"  explained 
Carrington.  "  It  elevates  the  soul 
and  keeps  the  thoughts  pure.  We 
sing  this  the  last  thing  every  night. 
Sometimes  it  comes  pretty  late.  We 
used  to  do  it  loudly  and  with  force 
until  a  tenant  objected.  Now  we  are 
more  gentle.  If  you  listen  though  you 
will  be  apt  to  hear  it,  Hal. " 

Jean  promised.  Then  she  urged 
them  to  drop  in  often,  as  she  was  lonely 
and  would  depend  on  them  to  cheer 
her.  They  in  their  turn  promised, 
said  good  night  to  her  as  they  would 
have  said  it  to  each  other,  and  climbed 
the  stairs. 


70  HAUAMAR 

"  They  are  dear,  good  fellows,"  said 
Jean,  then  sighed,  for  after  all  there 
was  desolation  in  her  heart,  and  she 
missed  Herbert. 

The  next  week,  Lucie  came.  Jean 
went  alone  to  the  dock.  Carrington 
wanted  to  be  there  to  help  with  Lucie's 
trunks,  but  somehow  Jean  felt  that  it 
would  be  easier  to  explain  things  with- 
out him,  and  said  so  frankly. 

She  was  anxious  to  see  her  sister;  so 
anxious  that  she  walked  up  and  down 
nervously,  straining  her  eyes  for  the 
first  sight  of  the  steamer.  But  in  her 
anxiety  there  was  uneasiness.  A  year 
of  luxury  was  apt  to  make  a  great 
change  in  a  girl's  disposition  —  espe- 
cially a  young  girl.  It  is  a  much  sim- 
pler matter  to  go  up  than  down,  and 
although  Jean  had  given  her  the  up- 
ward start,  this  would  be  forgotten 
when  she  must  come  down  again. 

She  felt  this  so  intensely  that  there 
was  a  question  in  her  mind  as  to  how 
Lucie  would  accept  the  changed  condi- 


HALAMAR  7i 

tions.  It  was  while  her  thoughts  were 
centered  on  this  that  she  noticed  a 
murmur  and  a  closing  together  of  the 
crowd.  She  looked  up  with  a  start  to 
see  the  boat  swinging  into  sight. 

It  was  all  a  confusion  of  many  peo- 
ple at  first.  But  presently  she  saw 
Lucie  standing  far  up  in  front,  the 
wind  blowing  her  skirts  tight  about 
her,  her  handkerchief  fluttering  above 
her  head.  Then  a  great  lump  came 
into  Jean's  throat  that  did  not  go  until 
after  she  held  the  girl  close  in  her  arms 
and  sobbed  hysterically  once  or  twice. 
After  that  it  was  easier,  and  she  let  go 
her  hold  and  looked  at  her  sister  crit- 
ically. 

She  was  changed  certainly.  There 
was  an  air  of  elegance  about  her  that 
made  her  a  little  unapproachable,  and 
the  expression  of  her  face  was  self-pos- 
sessed, or  haughty,  according  to  the 
way  one  saw  expressions.  She  carried 
herself  with  an  extreme  and  aristocratic 
grace,  and  was  evidently  surprised  at 
Jean's  deep  emotion. 


72_  HALAMAR 

She  had  a  great  many  trunks  and 
she  knew  a  great  many  men.  Also  she 
spoke  French  incessantly,  catching  her- 
self up  every  once  in  a  while  and 
plunging  into  English.  It  was  as 
though  she  constantly  forgot  that  she 
had  left  France. 

Bit  by  bit  Jean's  uneasiness  in- 
creased. A  chill  struck  at  her  heart. 
She  gave  a  little  uncontrollable  shiver, 
and  Lucie  turned  to  her  at  once. 
"Cherie,  you  are  cold.  Take  this. 
It  is  very  warm."  And  she  laid  a  tiny 
French  affair  that  she  had  been  carry- 
ing in  her  hands  about  Jean's  shoul- 
ders. It  was  strongly  perfumed  and 
very  pretty,  but  wholly  useless,  and 
Jean  had  an  unaccountable  desire  to 
throw  it  off.  It  was  a  feeling  that  she 
was  ashamed  of,  so  she  fought  it  down. 

By  this  time  Lucie  had  caught  the 
eye  of  an  inspector,  and  was  looking 
up  into  his  face  with  an  adorable 
smile.  He  examined  her  trunks,  and 
she  sat  perfectly  still  during  the  pro- 
ceeding, and  let  him  look  and  handle 


HALAMAR  73 

and  disarrange.  Jean  decided  that 
this  required  great  courage.  By  the 
few  glimpses  that  she  caught  she  knew 
those  boxes  were  brimful  of  delicate, 
dainty,  fragile,  unpractical  things.  She 
finally  said:  — 

"Lucie,  I  should  be  in  a  fever  if 
those  things  were  mine.  That  man 
will  ruin  them." 

Lucie  laughed;  a  sliding  scale  that 
sounded  musical  but  did  not  mean  any- 
thing. "There  are  many  things  there 
that  belong  to  you.  Come,  he  has 
finished.  You  are  charming,"  she  said 
to  the  inspector,  then  with  a  little  cour- 
tesy, "  Merci." 

Jean  had  not  come  to  the  boat  in  a 
carriage,  the  expense  was  too  great. 
So  she  led  Lucie  out  to  the  street 
where  there  were  a  dozen  vehicles  in 
readiness,  and  left  her  sister  near  the 
door  while  she  inspected  the  assort- 
ment. They  were  poor  specimens  to 
look  at  and  worse  to  ride  in,  while  the 
horses  had  an  appearance  of  extreme 
dejection. 


74  HALAMAR 

Lucie  watched  Jean  talking  to  one 
of  the  drivers.  He  gesticulated  a  great 
deal  and  she  talked  a  great  deal.  Lucie 
continued  to  watch,  and  although  her 
eyes  were  lustreless,  her  face  expressed 
a  surprised  interest  that  increased  into 
lively  concern  when  she  found  that  she 
was  expected  to  occupy  so  poor  a  con- 
veyance. Somehow  she  felt  that  her 
dignity  was  being  humiliated,  and  it 
was  with  an  air  of  exaggerated  submis- 
sion that  she  took  her  place  on  the 
springless  seat.  She  did  not  discuss 
the  situation,  however.  In  fact  there 
came  a  decided  pause  that  prolonged 
itself  into  a  discomforting  silence. 
Jean  felt  that  this  should  not  be  so,  and 
it  led  her  to  say  :  - 

"  Lucie,  you  got  my  letter  ?  " 

"Which  one,  Cherie  ?  I  have  had 
many  letters." 

"The  one  about  Herbert  and  me." 
It  came  out  hard. 

"Surely;  why  not?"  asked  Lucie, 
lightly. 

"  And  you  did  not  blame  me  ?  " 


HALAMAR  75 

"No,  certainly  not.  I  prefer  New 
York." 

Jean  gave  a  laugh.  Carrington 
would  have  understood  that  laugh.  It 
was  very  near  a  sob. 

"I  am  so  glad,  dear.  I  was  afraid 
you  would  be  disappointed.  It  has 
troubled  me  a  great  deal." 

Lucie  made  no  response,  and  Jean 
leaned  far  back  in  the  seat  and  was 
quiet.  Perhaps  after  all  she  had  mis- 
judged her  sister. 

When  they  stopped  at  the  apartment, 
she  sat  up  with  a  cheery,  "Here  we 
are,  Lucie." 

At  this  the  girl  sat  up  too,  and  looked 
out.  Surprise  and  dismay  were  sud- 
denly reflected  in  her  face.  "Jean, 
this  is  where  we  used  to  live." 

"Yes,  dear." 

"  I  expected  that  you  had  a  house. 
Herbert  is  rich." 

"Lucie,  I  thought  you  understood. 
Herbert  and  I  have  separated." 

"  Certainly,  but  he  supplies  you  with 
:.-;oney,  does  he  not?" 


76  HALAMAR 

"No,"  said  Jean  sharply,  and  there 
was  something  in  her  face  that  warned 
the  other  that  she  had  said  enough. 
They  left  the  wretched  carriage  silently. 
A  great  fear  was  suddenly  growing  in 
Lucie's  mind.  Still  not  speaking,  they 
went  up  into  the  apartment.  There 
Lucie  gave  one  look  around  her. 

"Ask  the  maid  to  make  me  some 
tea,"  she  said,  pulling  off  her  gloves. 
They  were  long,  white  new  ones;  verv 
white  and  very  new. 

"  I  have  no  maid,  Lucie.  I  can  not 
afford  one."  Jean  was  watching  the 
way  she  crumpled  up  those  gloves. 

"Will  you  kindly  explain  to  me  how 
you  live  ? "  Lucie's  voice  was  not 
pleasant. 

It  roused  Jean.  "We  live  as  we 
used  to  live;  as  you  always  lived  until 
my  husband's  money  sent  you  abroad 
and  ruined  you.  We  do  our  own 
cleaning  and  make  our  own  beds.  We 
cook  our  breakfast  and  luncheon  as 
best  we  can,  and  dine  out.  More  than 
that,  before  long  we  will  both  have  to 


HALAMAR 

work.  Outside  work,  I  mean,  for  the 
money  that  I  have  in  bank  will  not 
keep  us  long,  even  in  the  frugal  way  in 
which  we  are  to  live, —  and  I  suppose 
we  must  live,"  she  finished,  desperately. 

Lucie  got  up.  She  walked  across 
the  room  in  a  fashion  intended  to  be 
hopeless,  but  to  an  outsider  it  would 
have  looked  very  theatrical.  Suddenly 
she  turned,  and  there  was  intense  anger 
in  both  her  voice  and  manner. 

"  And  this  is  what  you  have  brought 
me  back  into,  is  it  ?  Slavery,  drudgery, 
humiliation;  you  who  could  give  me 
money  and  carriages  and  nice  things  — 
things  that  I  expected  and  needed. 
Yes,  needed.  I  will  not  stand  this;  do 
you  hear?  I  will  not  cook  !  I  will  not 
work  ?  There  is  neither  need  nor  ne- 
cessity for  it,  and  I  am  not  used  to  it. 
I  am  delicate  and  pretty,  and  if  you 
were  not  selfish  and  stubborn  and 
brutal  you  would  not  so  much  as  sug- 
gest this  thing  to  me.  I  will  go  to 
Herbert  myself  —  or  you  must.  I 
won't  live  like  this.  Do  you  know 


78  HALAMAR 

how  I  feel  towards  you?  I  hate  you! 
Yes,  I  hate  you,  and  I  am  glad  I  have 
said  it."  Her  voice  had  become  shrill, 
and  her  face  worked  with  fury  until 
there  were  no  signs  of  beauty  in  any 
one  of  her  features. 

But  her  acting  and  temper  counted 
for  nothing.  She  saw  this  after  one 
glance  into  her  sister's  set,  white  face. 
Her  fury  became  a  frenzy  at  the  very 
helplessness  of  the  whole  thing,  and 
with  a  quick  letting  go  of  her  body,  she 
fell  upon  the  floor,  face  downward,  and 
lay  there  sobbing  and  beating  with  her 
hands. 


VI 

An  hour  later  Carrington  came. 
When  he  looked  into  Jean's  haggard 
face  he  turned  away.  He  saw  that 
Lucie's  return  had  resulted  about  as  he 
expected,  and  Jean's  evident  suffering 
filled  him  with  resentment  against  her 
sister. 

Jean  held  up  her  hand.  "  Hush,  she 
is  lying  down  —  asleep,  I  hope.  Poor 
child,"  she  said,  and  led  him  into  the 
parlor. 

The  four  men  and  Jean  had  covered 
the  walls  with  a  dainty  creton  that  hid 
the  paper  and  softened  the  other  things 
in  the  room.  They  had  worked  hard 
to  accomplish  an  appearance  of  at- 
tractiveness. 

"  It  was  a  mistake,  Dick,  a  wretched 
mistake.  She  thought  the  separation 
meant  simply  living  apart  and  keeping 
up  two  establishments  —  one  for  Her- 

79 


80  HALAMAR 

bert,  one  for  me.  She  did  n't  realize 
that  I  had  any  pride,  and  she  can't  see 
why  I  refuse  his  money.  She  thinks  it 
is  all  selfishness  on  my  part.  I  suppose 
it  is,  in  a  way.  Still,  I  will  not  take 
his  money." 

Just  then  Lucie's  voice  came  out 
plaintively.  "Are  you  alone,  Jean?" 

"No,  dear,  Dick  is  with  me.  Will 
you  come  and  see  .him  ?  "  Her  voice 
was  very  tender. 

Lucie  thought  she  would.  Perhaps 
seeing  some  one  would  change  the  cur- 
rent of  her  thoughts.  She  was  so  ac- 
customed to  company  in  Paris,  and  her 
home  coming  had  been  so  unusual.  It 
would  take  her  some  little  time  to  get 
used  to  this  different  mode  of  life. 
They  would  understand  that  this  was 
so  very  different.  So  the  other  two  sat 
and  waited.  They  did  not  talk  because 
they  could  not.  There  was  but  one 
subject  on  their  minds. 

Presently  Lucie  appeared.  She  had 
put  on  an  exquisite  tea  gown  of  pale 
pink  with  quantities  of  lace.  Her  face 


HALAMAR 

was  white,  but  quite  undisturbed.  She 
walked  languidly  as  though  she  were 
not  strong. 

"  It  is  a  pleasure  to  see  you  again," 
she  said,  but  her  eyes  did  not  exhibit 
pleasure,  nor  did  her  manner.  She 
was  very  self-possessed. 

Carrington  bowed  profoundly.  It 
saved  his  speaking  at  once;  it  also  hid 
the  contempt  that  crept  into  his  eyes. 

"  Is  n't  Jean  odd  ?"  went  on  Lucie, 
quite  willing  to  argue  private  matters, 
and  all  the  time  she  spoke,  she  gave 
the  impression  of  being  unused  to  Eng- 
lish words.  "She  has  ideas  about 
money.  Such  peculiar  ideas.  I  think 
it  is  a  pose.  Jean  is  so  full  of  the  dra- 
matic that  she  acts  in  spite  of  herself. 
But  I  don't  act,  and  I  don't  care  to  be 
one  of  her  company.  I  am  not  fit  to 
work,  and  she  ought  to  understand  this. 
I  must  have  money  and  amusement. 
I  am  so  inclined  to  grow  morbid  if  I 
have  no  amusements." 

' '  We  have  amusements.  We  sing 
serenades.  Perhaps  you  would  like  to 


82  HALAMAR 

hear  us,"  suggested  Carrington,  trying 
to  be  natural. 

' '  Ah,  how  charming  !    Who  sings  ?  " 

"We  four — really  three.  Iky  and 
Jo,  Omar,  and  yours  truly." 

"Omar?  What  a  strange  name." 
A  bit  of  interest  crept  into  her  monoto- 
nous voice. 

"Yes,  we  always  call  him  Omar  be- 
cause none  of  us  could  learn  to  pro- 
nounce his  last  name.  At  times  when 
another  name  is  necessary  I  introduce 
him  as  Smith.  Do  you  want  to  see 
him  ?  Usually  a  thump  brings  them 
all,  but  the  plants  are  out  for  an  airing, 
so  only  he  will  answer."  Dick  had 
pursued  the  subject  because  her  inter- 
est in  it  was  the  first  thing  he  could 
seize  upon  as  tangible. 

Lucie  looked  condescending.  ' '  You 
are  so  odd,"  she  said,  then  laughed  her 
sliding  scale  again. 

Omar  came,  but  not  alone.  Dr. 
Maurice  was  with  him,  and  he  looked 
worried.  He  ignored  Dick's  question 
of  when  he  had  arrived,  because  he  did 


HALAMAR  83 

not  hear  it,  which  was  unlike  Maurice. 

"Let  them  go  in  there,"  he  said, 
keeping  hold  of  Jean's  hand  and  speak- 
ing to  Carrington.  "I  want  to  say 
something  if  you  will  allow  me." 

Omar  had  joined  Lucie  and  sat 
facing  her.  She  looked  very  beautiful 
and  very  fragile.  Jean  wondered  how 
she  could  recover  so  quickly  and  so 
completely  from  the  effects  of  her  out- 
burst. Her  eyes  were  clear  and  her 
face  showed  no  trace  of  tears,  temper 
or  disappointment. 

Maurice  still  held  her  hand.  "  My 
dear,  you  are  not  well,"  he  said  in  his 
great,  gentle  voice.  "Yet  I  must  add 
to  your  burden,  for  speaking  at  once 
may  be  kindness  in  the  end.  It  is 
rumored  that  there  is  trouble  at  the 
Continental  bank." 

Jean  gave  a  start,  and  the  little  light 
in  her  face  went  out,  leaving  it  very 
white. 

Maurice  watched  her.  "I  feared 
your  money  was  there.  Dick,  we  will 
go  and  see  if  it  is  too  late." 


84  HALAMAR 

"Shall  I  take  Omar?"  asked  Car- 
rington. 

"No,  let  him  stay.  Lucie  will  for- 
get all  her  unhappiness  if  she  has  him." 
There  was  no  bitterness  in  her  voice, 
only  sorrow.  Lucie's  character  had 
not  been  difficult  to  fathom. 

So  Maurice  and  Carrington  went 
away  and  Jean  counted  the  minutes 
after  they  had  gone.  She  could  hear 
Lucie's  even  tones  and  peculiar  pro- 
nunciation. She  knew,  too,  how  Omar 
was  sitting  there  motionless,  and  admir- 
ing the  perfection  of  her  beauty  and 
the  harmony  of  her  gown. 

All  the  while  Jean  was  walking  up 
and  down  wondering  what  the  loss  of 
her  money  would  bring,  and  full  of 
foreboding  as  to  the  effect  upon  Lucie. 

The  evening  came  on  dreary  and 
cold.  Jean  lighted  the  lamps  and  con- 
tinued her  walk.  Omar  was  still  con- 
tented. He  was  telling  Lucie  of  his 
hopes  and  ambitions.  The  idea  made 
Jean  smile.  Other  people's  hopes  and 
ambitions  in  connection  with  Lucie 
was  an  incongruity. 


HALAMAR  85 

It  was  nearly  seven  o'clock  when  the 
men  came  back.  She  did  not  ask  a 
word.  Carrington  went  directly  to  her 
and  put  both  arms  about  her. 

"Dear  old  Hal,"  he  said  with  a 
pathetic  break  in  his  voice. 

"All  gone?'*  she  asked,  faintly. 

"Nothing  to  be  had  just  now;  for 
many  months  even.  Perhaps  later; 
there  may  be  a  payment  later.  The 
bank  is  closed.  We  stood  in  line  for 
hours.  Poor  devils  !  " 

"  The  work  has  come  sooner  than  I 
expected,"  was  all  she  said,  but  Car- 
rington felt  her  grow  cold,  and  he 
could  not  meet  her  eyes. 

After  a  little  he  took  Omar  and 
Maurice  away.  And  when  they  were 
gone,  Jean  told  Lucie  all  that  had  hap- 
pened and  all  that  it  meant.  The  way 
that  she  told  it  held  Lucie  from  another 
outburst.  But  the  girl  cried  a  great 
deal,  and  finally  fell  asleep  in  Jean's 
arms,  still  sobbing. 


VII 

For  the  next  few  weeks  Jean  did  lit- 
tle else  but  seek  work.  It  was  rather 
a  useless  and  profitless  business.  There 
was  only  one  profession  that  she  knew, 
and  that  she  would  not  take  up  while 
she  held  the  name  of  Worthington. 
It  had  been  her  promise  to  Herbert. 
Lucie  begged  and  pleaded  until  Jean  in 
desperation  shut  her  off,  saying  per- 
emptorily, that  she  would  not  ask 
Herbert  for  money,  neither  would  she 
act  without  his  permission;  and  that 
she  was  tired  of  hearing  about  the 
matter. 

Still  the  subject  of  money  was  be- 
coming awkward.  It  was  Carrington 
who  came  to  the  rescue.  He  took 
Lucie  for  a  model  and  paid  her  twenty- 
five  dollars  a  week. 

Another  artist  asked  to  paint  a  por- 
trait of  Jean.  He  wanted  her  to  pose 

86 


HALAMAR  87 

in  one  of  the  characters  that  she  had 
created  before  her  marriage.  Perhaps 
he  was  far-sighted  enough  to  see  that 
the  time  must  come  when  as  Jean  Hal- 
amar  she  would  return  to  the  stage  and 
fame.  Then,  if  not  before,  the  pic- 
ture might  bring  him  notice.  To  him- 
self he  said  "renown."  At  any  rate  it 
was  a  speculation  that  looked  safe. 

So  she  posed,  and  was  paid  for  the 
sittings,  but  she  could  not  get  over  the 
idea  that,  after  all,  it  was  a  charity 
arrangement. 

One  day  she  received  a  letter  from 
Madam  Worthington.  It  was  an  in- 
sulting letter.  Reading  it  took  her 
back  into  that  other  world,  and  except 
for  Herbert,  she  was  thankful,  very 
thankful,  that  she  was  out  of  it. 

The  letter  was  entirely  about  Her- 
bert; his  unhappiness  and  brooding 
over  Jean;  how,  if  she  had  any  deli- 
cate sensibilities,  she  ought  to  see  that 
an  absolute  divorce  was  the  thing.  This 
separation  meant  nothing.  It  was  sim- 
ply a  barrier  to  Herbert's  future. 


88  HALAMAR 

"I  feel  sure,"  Madam  wrote,  "that 
after  leaving  your  husband's  home  and 
going  to  live  under  the  protection  of 
another  man,  you  will  see  that  a  return 
to  the  Worthingtons  is  quite  impossi- 
ble. Herbert  feels  this." 

Then  she  insinuated  that  his  affec- 
tions were  placed  in  another  direction, 
and  that  freedom  would  be  most  accept- 
able. 

Jean  felt  a  tightening  about  her  heart 
as  she  read. 

' '  Men  are  inconstant,  of  course,  but 
I  did  not  believe  he  would  be  consoled 
so  quickly,"  she  thought. 

"She  did  not  answer  the  letter  just 
then.  She  could  not.  Instead  she 
put  it  in  a  drawer  as  something  to 
think  over  and  decide  upon  carefully. 

She  was  sitting  idly  when  Omar 
called  outside  of  the  door  and  asked  if 
she  would  see  him.  She  welcomed 
him  with  absolute  relief.  He  had  a 
manuscript,  and  he  looked  hopefully 
at  her  idleness. 

"  May  I  read?     I  have  just  finished 


HALAMAR  89 

it.  I  want  your  opinion,  your  sincere 
opinion." 

She  smiled  up  at  him. 

"It  won't  bore  you?"  he  asked. 

"  No,  you  don't  know  how  glad  I 
am  to  listen." 

"And  you  have  time?" 

"All  the  time  in  the  world,"  she 
said,  settling  back  on  the  chair. 

Omar  had  the  knack  of  reading  well. 
Probably  because  he  felt  what  he  wrote. 
At  first  Jean  studied  him.  His  gaunt- 
ness  and  the  hollows  under  his  eyes 
touched  her.  He  looked  tired;  yes, 
and  hungry,  too.  And  at  times  his 
body  twitched  as  though  the  nerves 
were  snapping  under  too  great  a  ten- 
sion. But  presently  she  forgot  him  in 
the  play.  It  was  immensely  strong. 
Sometimes  repelling,  but  it  held  her 
attention.  The  climax  was  fearful  and 
grewsorne,  as  Carrington  had  told  her, 
but  it  was  powerfully  worked  out. 

The  instincts  of  the  dramatic  rose  in 
her.  She  sat  up  straight,  stiff,  her  face 
working  itself  into  the  very  feeling  of 


90  HALAMAR 

what  he  read.  She  saw  it,  lived  it, 
acted  it,  and  when  he  had  finished,  she 
sank  back,  limp  and  unnerved. 

For  a  long  time  neither  one  spoke. 
The  strain  had  affected  them  both. 
Still  without  speaking,  she  went  to  her 
desk  and  wrote.  It  was  a  letter  of  intro- 
duction to  Richmond,  her  old  manager, 
and  in  it  she  recommended  his  play. 
She  signed  the  note,  "Jean  Halamar 
Worthington."  It  was  the  first  time 
she  had  used  her  stage  name  since  the 
"  Worthington  "  had  been  added. 

"  That  is  my  answer  —  my  opinion," 
she  said.  "The  play  is  powerful  and 
original  and  full  of  possibilities.  Go 
to  him.  It  must  meet  with  the  success 
you  deserve." 

Long  after  he  had  left  her,  Jean  sat 
thinking  of  the  play.  It  had  awakened 
in  her  such  a  keen  desire  for  her  old 
work  that  she  could  not  force  it  aside. 
After  all,  the  stage  with  its  varieties 
and  monotonies  was  a  fascination  —  an 
irresistible  fascination.  She  began  to 
wonder  how  she  had  ever  had  the  cour- 


HALAMAR  91 

age  to  leave  it  at  all.  It  was  so  much 
a  part  of  her.  She  had  grown  up  in  it; 
the  very  atmosphere  was  a  tonic,  a 
stage  setting,  an  inspiration.  But  she 
had  promised,  and  she  was  very  loyal. 
Her  word  pledged  to  Herbert  meant  a 
great  deal. 

Then  she  began  to  think  of  two 
things  at  once;  that  it  was  time  to 
dress,  and  that  the  letter  must  be  an- 
swered. That  terrible  letter!  Was  it 
a  deliberate  attempt  on  the  part  of 
Madam  Worthington  to  make  this  sepa- 
ration final  and  complete  ?  Or  had 
Herbert  himself  prompted  the  writing 
of  it?  Did  he  wish  it  because  his  love 
for  her  was  dead  ? 

Her  face  hardened.  She  dragged 
herself  into  her  room,  tired  and  dis- 
spirited.  She  must  dress  for  the  sit- 
ting, for  that  meant  money. 

Two  days  later  Richmond  called. 
Jean  was  out,  but  Lucie,  with  a  won- 
derful lightening  of  her  heart,  arranged 
for  him  to  come  again  the  next  day. 


92  HALAMAR 

He  was  very  prompt.  It  was  a 
habit  he  required  of  his  people;  so  he 
practiced  it  himself.  He  seemed  over- 
joyed to  see  Jean,  but  he  wasted  little 
time  on  politeness. 

"  I  saw  the  young  man  with  the  Per- 
sian name." 

"  It 's  a  good  play,"  announced  Jean. 

"Yes  and  no  —  depends  upon  who 
plays  it." 

"Well?"  queried  Jean. 

The  manager  looked  at  her;  looked 
long  and  seriously.  "You  have  got 
the  hair  for  it,"  he  said. 

Jean  smiled  quietly.  She  knew  what 
was  coming.  And  it  sent  a  glow  over 
her.  After  all  it  was  agreeable  to  be 
wanted.  We  all  like  to  find  a  niche 
that  we  alone  can  fill  to  perfect  full- 
ness. 

"I've  a  proposition,"  went  on  the 
manager.  "  I  know  you;  so  does  the 
public.  You  will  carry  this  thing. 
With  anyone  else  it  would  be  risky, 
for  you  know  it 's  a  queer  show.  You 
head  the  company  I  put  out,  and  we 


HALAMAR  93 

will  send  it  on  the  road  till  spring.  If 
it  wins,  it  will  open  my  theatre  next  fall 
for  as  long  a  run  as  it  will  stand." 

"  And  my  salary?  "  put  in  Jean. 

"To  start  with,  one  fifty." 

"And  Omar?" 

"  Royalties.  They  all  insist  on  roy- 
alties now." 

"If  I  refuse?"  she  began. 

"  Can't  take  the  play.  Too  damned 
queer.  Risky."  Richmond  shook  his 
head. 

"May  I  have  a  little  time  to  con- 
sider?" asked  Jean. 

"Not  longer  than  a  week.  If  this 
thing  is  a  go  it's  got  to  start  soon." 

"  I  will  let  you  know  within  a  week," 
she  answered  gravely. 

Lucie  lying  in  her  room  just  beyond, 
heard  the  answer.  Presently  she  be- 
gan to  hum,  finally  to  sing.  But  Jean 
paid  no  heed  to  her  sister's  voice, 
although  this  was  the  first  expression 
of  happiness  that  had  come  from  her. 
She  went  slowly  to  her  desk  and  re- 
read the  letter. 


VIII 

Jean  was  dusting.  It  had  been  two 
days  since  Richmond's  interview,  and 
she  was  still  undecided.  It  made  her 
restless.  There  was  so  much  to  be 
thought  of  and  considered  both  ways. 
She  was  following  out  Madam  Worth- 
ington's  theories  now.  It  had  been  a 
hobby  with  the  old  gentlewoman  that 
house  work  was  the  panacea  for  all  ail- 
ments. 

So  she  had  tucked  her  hair  under  a 
big  white  cap,  smothered  her  dress  in  a 
gingham  apron,  and  was  rather  amused 
at  the  idea  that  her  mother-in-law's 
foibles  should  help  her  at  such  a  time. 
Jean  was  hard  at  it  when  Carrington 
came  down  the  stairs.  It  was  easy  to 
distinguish  his  coming  and  going  from 
the  others.  A  sudden  anxiety  to  talk 
over  Richmond's  offer  with  him  made 
her  open  the  door.  He  stood  there  on 

94 


HALAMAR  95 

the  threshold.  Lucie  lay  in  his  arms. 
Her  eyes  were  closed  and  her  face  per- 
fectly colorless. 

''Dick,  what  has  happened?"  she 
cried  sharply,  an  emotion  of  terror 
driving  out  every  other  thought. 

Dick  brought  the  girl  in  and  laid  her 
down  before  answering.  "Fainted," 
he  answered,  rather  sternly.  "Proba- 
bly she  should  n't  have  stood  this  morn- 
ing. Iky  thinks  it 's  a  reaction  from 
seeing  him  abruptly  and  without  warn- 
ing." 

Jean  was  kneeling  beside  Lucie,  bath- 
ing her  head  and  chafing  her  hands. 
Gradually  the  languid  eyes  opened. 
They  looked  into  Jean's  face.  "  I  am 
better,"  she  whispered,  faintly,  and 
smiled  as  Jean  leaned  over  and  kissed 
her.  There  was  a  deal  of  silent  pity 
in  the  older  sister's  face.  It  was  a 
time  Lucie  had  watched  and  waited 
for — the  opportunity  for  a  final  plea. 

"I've  tried  to  help  and  wanted  to. 
Really,  Cherie,  I  wanted  to.  But  I 
am  not  strong;  you  see  I  am  not 


96  HALAMAR 

strong."    She  began  drawing  her  words 
out. 

Jean  took  the  hand  Lucie  held  out 
and  clasped  it  in  both  her  own.  The 
advantage  was  still  with  Lucie. 

"  I  never  could  stand  long  at  a  time. 
But  I  did  not  like  to  say  so  before.  I 
did  n't  want  to  worry  you.  You  are  so 
good.  What  can  we  do  if  I  am  not 
able  to  earn  any  more  money?  " 

She  had  whispered  this,  but  the  whis- 
per came  distinctly  to  Carrington.  He 
looked  at  her  and  it  was  a  strange 
gaze,  then  his  eyes  went  to  Jean  again. 
Instinctively  the  expression  softened  at 
once. 

She  had  taken  Lucie's  head  on  her 
lap  and  was  talking  to  her  as  she  would 
have  talked  to  a  child.  "I  did  not 
know,  dear.  I  have  been  blind  —  self- 
ishly blind.  But  you  must  not  worry, 
and  you  need  not  stand  again." 

"Then  how  will  we  get  on?"  The 
voice  was  beseeching,  but  the  eyes 
looked  satisfied. 

"I  will  find  a  way,"  said  Jean. 


HALAMAR  97 

Then  the  advantage  was  gone;  but 
Lucie  had  accomplished  her  desire; 
perhaps  succeeded  better  than  she  had 
hoped.  She  closed  her  eyes  again,  and 
asked  for  a  drink. 

It  was  Carrington  who  brought  it. 
It  was  also  Carrington  who  carried  her 
into  her  bedroom.  He  asked  if  he 
could  be  of  further  help,  and  when 
he*  found  that  he  could  not,  he  banged 
out  of  the  apartment  and  banged  into 
his  studio,  muttering  unintelligibly. 

Iky  and  Jo  in  the  midst  of  a  tender 
episode  —  the  climax  of  the  love  inter- 
est in  the  book — jumped  guiltily  at  the 
noise  in  the  next  room.  They  were  so 
upset  that  they  lost  the  thread  of  what 
they  were  doing. 

"What   d'you   'spose  is  up?"  said 

Jo- 

"  Daubed,  probably.  Jo,  what  was 
this  girl  saying  ?  "  And  Jo  could  n't 
remember. 

While  Lucie  was  sleeping  comfort- 
ably and  quietly,  her  head  pillowed  on 
her  hand,  and  a  down  quilt  warm  about 

7 


98  HALAMAR 

her,   Omar  came.     He  looked  pitiful, 
and  as  though  he  had  not  slept. 

"  Have  you  decided  ? "  he  cried.  "I 
had  not  meant  to  trouble  you.  I  don't 
want  to  influence  you.  But  I  could  n't 
wait.  I  am  impatient,  cowardly." 

Jean  was  watching  him  intently. 
Her  face  had  become  pale  and  strange. 
She  wondered  how  long  it  had  been 
since  he  had  had  enough  to  eat.  Three 
good  meals  a  day  !  The  very  thought 
made  her  hungry.  She  had  not  had 
three  good  meals  a  day  either  for  some 
time  past.  This  prompted  her  next 
question. 

"It  means  food,  doesn't  it?"  she 
asked,  quietly. 

"Yes,  but  it  is  n't  that.  Believe  me, 
it  is  n't  that  at  all.  I  am  willing  to  go 
hungry.  I  don't  want  you  to  consider 
that ;  it  was  only  because  I  was  anx- 
ious to  know — to  know  if  you  had 
decided." 

"  I  have  decided."  She  said  quickly, 
not  daring  to  hesitate.  "  I  am  going 
to  accept  Richmond's  offer." 


HALAMAR  99 

Omar  gave  an  inarticulate  cry.  A 
sound  that  brought  the  tears  to  Jean's 
eyes.  She  had  not  cried  for  so  long  that 
the  feeling  was  strange,  and  the  tears 
dropped  unheeded  down  her  cheeks. 

Omar  saw  them,  and  he  knelt  beside 
her.  It  was  impulse,  but  thoroughly 
natural.  Still  it  was  such  an  unusual 
attitude  that  Jean  smiled  in  spite  of  her 
sympathy  with  his  feeling  —  and  she 
had  entire  sympathy. 

He  did  not  speak  —  only  kissed  her 
hand.  Emotion  had  blinded  him,  and 
somehow  his  strength  was  gone.  He 
arose  slowly.  Then  he  kissed  her  hand 
again  and  went  out  softly  as  though 
afraid  a  sound  would  check  the  fierce- 
ness of  his  joy.  Besides,  there  was  a 
kind  of  holiness  about  the  abode  of 
these  two  women.  But  he  burst  into 
the  studio;  nothing  was  sacred  here. 
Carrington  stood  with  his  hands  in  his 
pockets,  puffing  at  his  pipe.  Omar 
caught  hold  of  him,  gripping  him  with 
the  tremendous  power  that  had  sud- 
denly possessed  him. 


100  HALAMAR 

"She's  decided!  She's  decided! 
It  will  go."  He  shouted.  Iky  and 
Jo,  hearing  the  noise,  came  in,  arm 
in  arm. 

Then  the  four  lined  up  and  shouted 
out  the  serenade.  They  sang  it  twice. 
It  shook  the  chandeliers  and  rattled 
the  windows  and  echoed  out  through 
the  hall  until  it  came  into  the  apart- 
ment below  in  a  torrent  of  noisy  tune- 
lessness. 

Jean  looked  up,  and  a  gleam  of  hap- 
piness lighted  her  face  for  a  moment. 
Then  she  bent  over  her  desk  again, 
unhearing.  When  she  finished,  there 
were  two  letters.  One  for  Richmond, 
the  other  for  Madam  Worthington. 


IX 

Richmond  put  Omar's  play  into  re- 
hearsal before  any  of  the  company  had 
expected  it.  The  comedy  he  had  been 
playing  had  run  itself  out,  so  he  de- 
cided to  send  Jean  on  the  road  for  a 
month  only.  After  that  she  was  to 
open  in  his  theater. 

Omar  was  elated  over  the  change. 
He  worked  with  Jean  and  he  worked 
with  Richmond.  It  is  a  great  thing  to 
have  success  within  reach;  especially 
when  one  is  tired  and  cold  and  hungry. 

Late  one  afternoon  when  the  sun 
was  almost  to  its  setting,  and  Carring- 
ton  had  stopped  painting  because  the 
studio  was  too  dark  to  see  color, 
he  heard  Omar  come  in.  He  walked 
straight  to  Dick's  room. 

"Well,  Omar,  had  a  long  day  of  it, 
haven't  you?"  Dick  called  out,  glad 
of  company. 

101 


102  HALAMAR 

Omar  came  in.  One  shaft  of  light 
fell  slantwise  across  the  room.  Inad- 
vertently he  stopped  just  where  it  fell. 
Carrington  was  leaning  against  a  chair, 
and  he  gazed  at  his  companion's  face 
curiously. 

"You  are  a  sight,  Omar.  What  the 
devil  ails  you?  "  His  voice  was  kinder 
than  his  words. 

"  I  don't  know.  I  am  either  insane, 
or  I  have  found  out  something  damna- 
ble. Perhaps  it  is  a  mixture  of  both. 
Have  you  any  whisky  here  ? " 

Carrington  went  to  a  cupboard  and 
found  a  bottle.  It  was  so  dark  that  he 
spilled  a  good  deal  when  he  poured  the 
stuff  into  the  glass.  He  swore  a  little, 
not  at  all  because  he  was  angry,  but 
because  it  is  the  habit  of  a  man  to 
swear  when  his  hand  shakes. 

Omar  drank  it  without  a  word.  He 
was  silent  so  long  that  inaction  palled 
on  Dick,  and  he  rolled  a  cigarette, 
lighted  it  and  puffed  it  half  away. 
Carrington  never  urged  a  person  to 
talk.  There  was  only  a  glow  in  the 


HALAMAR  103 

room  when  Omar  finally  spoke.  The 
shaft  of  light  had  gone. 

"  I  have  either  written  a  play  that  is 
hellish,  or  seeing  it  put  into  action  has 
balled  me  up."  He  stopped  again. 

"Get  somewhere,  Omar,"  put  in 
Carrington. 

"You  better  take  some  whisky,  too. 
It  will  brace  you  up  for  what  I  've  got 
to  tell.  I  know  that  what  I  am  going 
to  say  is  hellish,  whether  it's  true  or 
not,  and  whisky  does  help." 

"I  don't  want  whisky.  Speak  out 
or  shut  up."  There  was  a  hint  of  sav- 
ageness  about  Dick.  He  had  grown 
uneasy.  Omar  was  not  usually  this 
way. 

"Of  course  I  am  going  to  speak  out. 
That 's  what  I  came  in  here  for.  I  had 
to  speak  out.  I  couldn't  keep  it  bot- 
tled up  in  me.  It 's  the  kind  of  knowl- 
edge that  makes  ghosts.  I  am  going 
to  speak  out  of  course."  Then  he 
stopped  again. 

"  For  God's  sake!  "  broke  out  Car- 
rington. 


104  HALAMAR 

"Don't  get  savage.  It's  about 
Jean." 

"What  is  about  Jean?"  Carring- 
ton  tried  not  to  speak  overloud.  His 
hands  twitched  and  a  strange,  creepy 
feeling  went  up  and  down  his  back. 

"I  don't  know.  It's  what  I  think 
and  what  I  saw,  too  —  for  I  did  see  it. 
You  know  we  have  been  working  hard; 
she  especially.  She  seems  to  feel  very 
intensely  about  the  play,  and  some- 
times I  think  it 's  more  on  my  account 
than  on  her  own;  the  success  of  it,  I 
mean.  She  has  n't  been  satisfied  with 
studying  just  her  part;  not  at  all.  She 
has  hunted  up  literature  about  it. 
You  know  the  play.  I  took  those  peo- 
ple because  they  never  had  been  han- 
dled much  before,  and  it 's  hard  to  find 
original  themes  —  devilish  hard.  I 
wish  to  God  though,  I  had  chosen 
some  other.  Give  me  another  drink. 
I  have  n't  had  anything  to  eat  all  day. " 

"Then  certainly  you  don't  want  an- 
other drink.  Get  through,  then  we 
will  go  to  dinner." 


HAUAMAR  105 

Omar  did  not  expostulate,  but  went 
on,  taking  up  his  story  where  he  had 
left  off. 

"I  never  saw  a  person  get  so  into 
the  spirit  of  a  thing  as  she  has  into 
that  part.  She  says  it's  because  she  has 
studied  those  people.  She  says,  too, 
that  she  feels  it  all.  Their  wanderings 
and  loneliness,  their  suffering,  isola- 
tion, despair,  hopelessness,  and  all  the 
rest.  And  I  think  she  does.  She  told 
me  that  when  I  first  read  the  play  to 
her  she  could  put  herself  into  the  char- 
acter —  that  that  woman  lived  in  her. 
It  was  this  that  made  her  so  sure  of  its 
merit.  Well,  to-day  we  had  a  dress 
rehearsal;  make  up,  costumes,  and  all 
the  rest  of  it.  You  know  we  leave  to- 
morrow." 

Omar  gave  this  as  a  piece  of  news. 
He  seemed  to  have  forgotten  how  they 
had  all  watched  and  waited  for  the 
coming  of  that  date. 

"It  was  great!  Better  than  I  ex- 
pected, or  hoped,  or  dreamed !  I 
couldn't  believe  for  a  long  time  that 


106  HALAMAR 

it  was  mine.  It  was  so  strange  —  so 
grandly  strange  to  think  that  the 
words  they  spoke  were  my  words,  the 
situations  my  situations. 

"Jean  was  wonderful.  She  never 
has  acted  as  she  did  to-day.  She  car- 
ried the  whole  company  along  by  her 
intensity  and  power  and  magnetism. 
Then  —  then  came  that  last  act.  That's 
the  one,  you  know,  where  she  becomes 
a well,  one  of  those  people." 

He  moved  his  body  restlessly  and 
swallowed  noisily.  His  throat  was 
parched. 

"Go  on,"  growled  Carrington.  It 
was  perfectly  dark.  So  dark  that  there 
were  no  shadows,  only  blackness,  and 
Omar's  voice  coming  huskily  from  out 
of  its  midst. 

"When  she  came  on  to-  the  stage, 
there  was  a  strong  light.  Arranged,  of 
course,  to  heighten  the  effect.  The 
glare  fell  on  her  from  somewhere 
above.  The  lower  part  of  the  stage 
was  blue  —  a  queer  blue  that  one  felt. 

"I  looked  at  her  once  and  then  I 


HALAMAR  107 

turned  away.  I  thought  something 
was  going  to  happen,  but  nothing  did. 
She  was  going  on  with  her  part.  There 
was  no  hesitation,  nothing  wrong.  So 
I  took  courage  and  looked  up.  Oh 
God!  Oh  God!  I  hope  I  will  never 
see  again  what  I  saw  then.  All  in  a 
sudden  I  hated  my  play.  I  hated  my- 
self. I  hated  the  very  sight  and  sound 
of  a  theatre." 

The  other  man  made  a  slight 
movement.  It  passed  unnoticed. 
Omar's  breathing  annoyed  Carrington. 
It  seemed  always  to  be  coming  in,  in 
sharp  hisses,  as  though  he  were  con- 
tinually catching  it.  It  never  went 
out. 

"  I  don't  know  how  it  ended.  I 
stood  there  like  a  frozen  thing.  Yet 
really  I  was  'not  cold.  I  was  burning  — 
on  fire.  My  hands  were  so  hot  that 
they  pained." 

He  lifted  them  now.  Raised  them 
slowly,  then  dropped  them  again  imme- 
diately. It  was  too  dark  to  see. 

"The  words  she  spoke  had  grown  to 


108  HALAMAR 

have  no  meaning  whatever.  I  heard 
only  vague  noises.  Noises  that  came 
from  the  roaring  of  those  flames  that 
were  consuming  me."  He  huddled 
himself  together  rocking  his  body.  "  I 
couldn't  see,  either." 

Omar  said  this  with  such  apparent 
terror  that  Carrington  gave  a  step  for- 
ward. His  thought  had  been  to  help. 
But  what  could  he  do  to  help  here  ?  He 
stopped  again  at  once. 

"  Everything  was  whirling  before  my 
eyes.  Going  round  and  round  in  a 
sickly,  ghastly  glare.  After  it  was  all 
over  my  senses  came  back  a  little.  I 
went  to  Jean.  They  were  all  around 
her,  congratulating  her.  It  seemed 
like  congratulating  a  skeleton  on  the 
way  it  dangled  up  and  down  on  a  wire. 
I  could  n't  think  of  anything  else,  yet 
that  is  n't  really  a  comparison.  Rich- 
mond was  crazy.  He  saw  success  — 
money  —  that's  the  only  kind  of  suc- 
cess he  understands.  I  finally  got  Jean 
aside.  I  did  n't  look  at  her  closely,  or 
even  directly. 


HALAMAR  109 

11  'There  is  danger  to  you  in  this,' 
I  said. 

"  '  I  know  it,  '  she  replied,  very 
calmly.  I  was  n't  expecting  her  to  be 
calm,  either. 

"  '  Stop,  please  stop  !  I  want  to 
starve.'  I  suppose  I  said  it  strangely, 
for  she  looked  at  me  with  pity  and  gen- 
tleness in  her  eyes.  I  know  that.  I 
felt  it — think  of  it — pity,  gentleness!  " 
He  threw  out  his  arms  in  an  abandon- 
ment of  grief. 

"  'If  there  is  danger  in  this,  the  dan- 
ger is  done,  '  she  said,  still  calmly. 
Then  I  came  away.  You  see  I  had 
reached  the  limit  of  my  endurance.  I 
don't  think  I  said  anything  more.  But 
I  am  not  sure.  I  am  not  sure  of  any- 
thing. Dick,  Dick,  my  heart  is 
broken.  Oh,  God  !  Oh,  God  !  " 

For  a  long  time  there  was  silence. 
Carrington's  hands  were  nerveless  and 
there  was  a  blur  in  his  eyes.  Presently 
there  came  to  him  a  great  desire  to  be 
alone.  The  desire  grew  until  it  became 
an  actual  need.  He  begged  Omar  to 


IIP  HALAMAR 

go  to  his  dinner,  but  Omar  either  did 
not  hear  or  he  was  too  engrossed  in 
his  own  dreadful  thoughts  to  under- 
stand. He  did  not  answer  at  all.  He 
did  not  even  speak  when  Carrington 
left  the  studio.  He  said  afterward  that 
he  did  not  hear  him  leave. 

Carrington  had  intended  to  go  for  a 
walk.  It  seemed  to  him  that  a  blast  of 
cold  air  might  drive  away  the  feeling  in 
his  head.  But  when  he  got  down  stairs 
he  found  that  he  had  forgotten  his  hat. 
So  he  climbed  up  again.  He  stopped 
at  Jean's  apartment.  There  were  no 
lights  there  and  everything  was  very 
quiet.  He  pushed  open  the  door  and 
went  in.  He  could  not  see,  and  there 
was  nothing  to  hear.  He  struck  a  match. 
Light  had  become  a  necessity.  Dark- 
ness now  would  always  be  associated  in 
his  mind  with  that  monstrous  thing  he 
had  just  heard.  By  the  flare  of  the  taper 
he  saw  Lucie.  She  was  crouched  down 
outside  Jean's  door.  The  girl  had  been 
crying,  and  the  traces  of  tears  were  still 
visible  on  her  face,  but  her  eyes  were 


HALAMAR  III 

closed.  From  sheer  loneliness  she  had 
fallen  asleep.  He  shook  her  and  she 
started  up  with  a  cry. 

"What  is  the  matter?"  he  asked 
sharply. 

"  I  don't  know.  It  is  Jean's  fault. 
I  have  done  nothing.  Jean  has  ,  been 
so  odd.  I  don't  know  whether  she  is 
sick  or  cross,  but  I  think  it's  both," 
she  whimpered.  "She  wouldn't  let 
me  help  her,  all  because  I  said  she 
looked  pale.  She  was  very  angry;  I 
don't  know  why.  " 

"Go  in  there  and  see  if  she  is  rest- 
ing," he  commanded. 

"  I  can't.  She  won't  let  me.  I  am 
afraid,"  expostulated  the  girl.  "She 
says  that  I  am  not  to  touch  her  or  look 
at  her." 

So  Carrington  knocked  —  gently  — 
much  as  a  woman  might  knock.  There 
was  no  reply.  He  opened  the  door 
softly  and  listened.  Jean's  breath  was 
coming  and  going  quickly,  but  still  the 
regularity  of  it  showed  that  she  slept. 
Then  he  closed  the  door  again. 


112  HALAMAR 

''Go  to  bed,"  he  said  to  Lucie, 
"I'll  watch." 

Carrington  sat  there  all  through  the 
night,  wide-eyed,  sleepless,  until  the 
sky  in  the  east  was  light  with  dawn. 
Then  he  got  up  stiffly,  and  went  away; 
but  he  never  told,  and  Lucie  never 
told,  and  Jean  never  knew. 


X 


When  Jean  went  "on  the  road," 
Carrington  did  not  see  her  to  say  good- 
bye. That  may  have  been  the  reason 
why  the  next  month  dragged  so.  She 
wrote  to  him  once,  in  answer  to  one 
of  his  letters.  They  were  having  im- 
mense success,  and  she  was  quite  well, 
but  would  be  very  glad  to  get  home 
again.  Traveling  had  lost  the  spice 
and  newness  that  it  once  held  for  her. 

It  was  a  short  letter,  and  on  the 
whole  unlike  Jean.  She  was  not  newsy, 
not  even  bright,  and  there  was  a  strain 
of  cheerfulness  that  showed  distinctly 
that  it  was  an  effort. 

All  at  once  everything  went  wrong 
with  Carrington.  He  began  by  having 
trouble  with  his  models.  This  hin- 
dered him  in  his  work  and  made  him 
cross.  Then  the  "Plants"  decided  to 
take  a  flying  trip  west.  He  insisted 

8  113 


114  HALAMAR 

that  he  did  not  mind  being  left  alone; 
in  fact  hinted  that  it  would  be  a  relief. 
So  they  took  him  at  his  word.  They 
wanted  to  get  local  color  for  a  new 
story.  Their  last  one  had  been  sold, 
and  they  were  getting  fifteen  cents  on 
each  book.  Not  enough  to  make  them 
rich;  still  it  was  something  and  it 
meant  a  future. 

Dick  missed  them.  Perhaps  he  had 
never  been  in  such  need  of  companion- 
ship as  now.  However,  nothing  would 
have  made  him  acknowledge  this,  and 
nobody  guessed  it. 

He  had  written  to  Omar  beseeching 
him  to  tell  the  truth  about  Jean.  His 
letter  was  four  pages  of  questions  and 
Omar's  reply  was,  as  hers  had  been,  a 
brief  account  of  their  successes. 

Dick  stormed  and  swore,  and  wrote 
again.  To  this  there  was  no  reply. 
But  the  four  weeks  ended  and  the 
company  came  back. 

From  a  feeling  of  delicacy,  Carring- 
ton  stayed  away  from  Jean's  apart- 
ment until  they  should  be  settled  a  lit- 


HALAMAR  115 

tie.  He  heard  Lucie  and  Jean  go  into 
their  rooms,  and  he  had  a  great  longing 
to  hurry  after  them. 

He  waited  an  hour;  then  the  burden 
of  time  became  too  heavy  and  he  took 
up  his  hat  and  his  cane.  He  had  an 
idea  that  the  cane  gave  him  the  appear- 
ance of  having  merely  dropped  in.  It 
was  against  his  principles  ever  to  appear 
anxious.  While  he  was  going  down 
stairs  he  wondered  what  had  become 
of  Omar. 

The  door  was  locked.  This  was 
unusual.  Always  before  when  they 
were  at  home  the  door  was  unlatched 
—  and  Carrington  knew  they  were  at 
home.  He  rang  the  bell,  and  stood 
contemplating  the  head  of  his  cane. 
He  rang  a  second  time.  Immediately 
a  maid  appeared  and  said  that  Madam 
Halamar  was  resting  and  could  not  be 
disturbed.  She  was  fatigued  from  her 
long  journey,  and  as  she  was  to  act 
that  night  she  wished  to  feel  fresh  for 
her  work.  It  was  quite  necessary  that 
she  deny  herself  to  all  callers. 


116  HALAMAR 

Carrington  appreciated  all  the  maid 
said  and  really  saw  the  reasons  clearly, 
but  he  went  away  with  a  curious,  angry 
feeling.  Omar  did  not  come  home  at 
all.  He  sent  a  note  up  to  Dick,  en- 
closing tickets  for  a  box,  and  asking 
him  to  be  sure  and  come  and  bring 
Iky  and  Jo;  Maurice,  too,  if  possible. 
He  asked,  in  fact,  that  Dick  make  a 
great  effort  to  bring  Maurice.  He 
apologized  for  not  getting  up  with  the 
tickets  himself,  but  said  Richmond 
wanted  him.  He  did  not  explain  what 
for. 

So  Dick  sent  for  Maurice,  and  they 
dined  together  and  got  to  the  theatre 
early.  Carrington  did  not  try  again  to 
see  Jean.  Nor  did  he  try  to  resist  the 
acute  terror  that  had  been  hovering 
over  him  all  day.  This  had  settled 
down  heavily  upon  him,  finally  envel- 
oping him  like  a  pall,  and  he  could  n't 
shake  it  off;  neither  could  he  force  any 
gaiety  through  it.  It  increased  until  it 
became  actual  pain  —  a  pain  that  was 
like  nothing  he  had  ever  experienced 


HALAMAR  117 

before.  Coupled  with  this  was  a  feel- 
ing that  something  unendurable  was 
about  to  happen. 

The  theatre  filled  up  rapidly.  It 
was  an  immense  audience.  Carrington 
had  expected  this,  and  talked  volubly 
to  the  doctor  about  it.  He  wanted  to 
talk  for  the  relief  it  brought  him.  But 
the  words  came  tumbling  from  his  lips 
in  disconnected  sentences,  and  con- 
veyed nothing  very  intelligible  to  Mau- 
rice, who  was  making  an  attempt  to 
listen.  Omar  did  not  appear,  but  Dick 
had  ceased  to  wonder  at  that. 

Jean's  entrance  called  forth  a  storm 
of  applause.  For  many  minutes  the 
audience  held  the  play  at  a  standstill 
while  she  acknowledged  her  welcome. 
A  great  lump  forced  its  way  up  into 
Dick's  throat.  Jean  was  beautiful, 
more  beautiful  than  he  had  ever  seen 
her  before,  but  there  was  a  delicate 
look  about  her  that  was  new.  He 
noticed  Maurice  was  gazing  at  her 
fixedly. 

As  the  play  went  on  both  men  were 


118  HALAMAR 

aroused  to  an  intensity  of  feeling  that 
was  not  usual  with  either  one.  It  was 
a  loathsome  theme,  but  wonderfully 
handled,  and  Jean's  acting  was  tre- 
mendous. Still  the  dismal  foreboding 
clung  about  Carrington.  He  never  for 
one  moment  lost  it. 

As  the  curtain  was  going  up  on 
the  last  act,  Omar  stole  into  the  box. 
Carrington  scarcely  noticed  him.  The 
"blue  light  that  one  felt"  and  the 
"glare  from  somewhere  above"  had 
caught  his  attention  and  was  warning 
him  of  what  was  to  come.  He  had 
suddenly  remembered  Omar's  descrip- 
tion of  it. 

When  Jean  came  on  he  gasped  —  a 
fearful,  sickening  sound.  There  was  a 
murmur  from  many  voices  all  about 
him,  but  he  did  not  hear  that.  He 
only  saw,  and  saw,  and  saw,  and  was  so 
stunned  with  the  awfulness  of  what  he 
saw,  that  he  knew  nothing  else.  Mau- 
rice's eyes  were  riveted,  and  his  face 
was  drawn  into  many  lines.  A  tremor 
had  shot  up  his  spine  and  settled 


HALAMAR  119 

itself  somewhere  in  the  base  of  his 
brain.  Omar  sat  with  his  back  to  the 
stage,  his  head  sunk  in  his  hands.  He 
looked  shrunken  and  pitiful. 

She  finished  somehow.  All  through 
the  climax  Carrington  looked,  but  saw 
only  THAT.  His  eyes  were  burning  until 
the  sockets  felt  like  coals,  then  all  at 
once  he  closed  his  eyes,  and  when  he 
opened  them  again  Jean  was  gone,  the 
lights  were  gone,  and  the  people  were 
calling  and  cheering.  But  Madam 
Halamar  for  whom  they  called  did  not 
come. 

Carrington  got  up  and  went  out 
of  the  box,  Maurice  following  him 
closely.  He  went  back  of  the  stage, 
going  as  swiftly  and  directly  as  though 
he  had  been  used  to  the  theatre  all  his 
life.  Yet  he  had  never  been  behind 
the  scenes  before. 

There  was  a  great  deal  of  noise, 
many  people,  and  some  confusion,  but 
he  did  not  stop.  He  had  a  glimpse  of 
a  dress.  Only  one  glimpse,  and  in  the 
distance,  too,  but  he  recognized  it. 


120  HAUAMAR 

Jean  was  standing  in  the  middle  of 
her  dressing  room,  alone.  The  light 
fell  on  her,  not  so  intensely  as  that 
other  one  "from  above,"  but  it  was 
enough.  Her  face  was  white  —  not 
gray-white,  like  ashes,  but  milky,  and 
glaring,  and  terrible  to  look  upon. 

She  gave  a  frightened  glance  into 
Dick's  face,  then  held  up  one  arm  as  if 
to  protect  herself. 

"  Keep  away,  keep  away,  don't  come 
near  me!  "  she  cried,  and  her  voice 
was  awful  to  hear.  "  Don't  you  see, 
can't  you  understand?  Look  at  my 
face!  There  is  no  paint  on  it.  There 
was  no  paint  on  it  at  all  in  the  last  act. 
I  do  not  have  to  use  paint.  It  is  as  I 
am.  It  is  my  mark,  do  you  hear  ?  my 
mark  !  " 

With  a  great  sob  Carrington  started 
toward  her. 

Then  she  screamed  at  him,  "  No, 
no,  keep  back  !  I  am  one  of  them, 
one  of  those  fearful  beings  !  Look  !  " 

With  a  move  of  savage  swiftness,  the 
same  savage  swiftness  with  which  wild 


HAUAMAR  121 

creatures  shield  their  young,  she  tore 
up  the  sleeve  that  fell  over  her  right 
arm.  Maurice  leaped  forward.  All 
the  while  her  eyes  were  staring  into 
Dick's.  And  Omar  had  crept  in,  his 
breath  coming  in  gasps  that  could  be 
heard  above  the  din  of  the  theatre. 
His  face  was  scarcely  less  terrible  than 
hers.  There  was  something  inhuman 
about  them  both. 

Then  she  moved  her  arm.  The 
motion  was  slow  and  strained.  When 
it  was  finally  raised  out  of  the  shadow, 
they  who  looked  saw  that  it  was 
withered. 

"  Oh,  God  !  "  moaned  Omar,  and  he 
reeled  back. 

"Now  you  understand,  all  of  you. 
Go  away,  go  away,"  she  whispered. 

"  All  my  life  I  must  cry,  '  Unclean  ! 
unclean  !  '  Dick,  you  see,  I  am  a 

LEPER." 

Unconsciously  she  had  held  out  her 
arms  to  him,  and  with  a  cry  of  great 
love  and  great  tenderness,  he  sprang 
to  her. 


XI 

Carrington  never  understood  how  he 
passed  that  night.  In  fact,  he  would 
never  speak  of  it  at  all,  but  sometimes 
when  he  thought  of  it  to  himself,  he 
wished  he  was  quite  clear  just  what  did 
happen. 

About  noon  the  next  day  Herbert 
Worthington  appeared.  His  coming 
was  sudden  and  unannounced.  Dick 
stared  at  him.  He  was  thin  and 
wretched  and  unnatural.  Dick  won- 
dered why  he  had  come,  and  asked  the 
question;  to  which  Worthington  replied, 
that  he  had  come  in  answer  to  a  tele- 
gram. And  he  pulled  a  paper  out  of 
his  pocket  and  watched  Carrington 
curiously  while  he  read  it. 

It  was  a  message  sent  and  signed  by 

Dick.      "I  suppose  I  did  it,"  he  said, 

looking     up.       Then     he     reread    it. 

"  Probably  when  I  sent  it  I  thought  it 

122 


HALAMAR  123 

was  the  proper  thing  —  the  only  thing. 
I  am  not  quite  certain  what  I  thought, 
or  did,  last  night." 

Worthington  evidently  expected  an 
explanation,  so  Carrington  attempted 
one.  "I  wasn't  crazy,  or  drunk, 
either.  I  was  desperate."  He  got 
that  far;  then  he  left  explanations,  and 
asked  a  question. 

"What  is  this  business  that  keeps 
you  and  Jean  apart?"  he  asked 
sharply. 

Worthington  winced.  A  dull  color 
came  into  his  face,  and  spread  until  it 
covered  his  face  and  neck. 

"What  is  that  to  you?"  he  de- 
manded. 

"Everything,  because  it  is  killing 
her.  You  did  n't  know,  did  you  ?  She 
is  hopelessly  ill.  Can  you  understand 
that?  Hopelessly  ill.  At  least  it  will 
be  hopeless  unless  a  certain  series  of 
things  can  be  brought  to  pass,  and  the 
things  depend  on  you.  Maurice  says 
he  can  cure  her.  He  says  he  is  abso- 
lutely certain  of  a  complete  recovery, 


124  HALAMAR 

providing  he  can  carry  out  a  particular 
course  of  treatment." 

"  Carrington,  you  must  know,  you 
ought  to  understand,  that  I  am  willing. 
Good  God,  man,  I  love  Jean!  You 
don't  know  what  I  have  suffered." 
Worthington  put  his  hands  before  his 
face,  and  he  was  not  ashamed  to  have 
Dick  Carrington  see  the  grief  which 
was  beyond  his  control. 

"She  has  grieved  for  you  every 
minute.  She  has  n't  said  a  word,  and 
I  haven't  asked  any  questions;  but 
neither  was  necessary.  I  saw  and  I 
knew,  but  I  could  n't  help.  No  one 
could  ease  that  sorrow  but  yourself,  and 
you  were  silent." 

It  was  such  a  temptation  to  Carring- 
ton to  say  harsh  things  to  this  man 
that  he  abruptly  stopped  speaking  and 
began  to  walk  around  the  room.  It 
was  not  his  purpose  to  quarrel,  but  he 
had  always  considered  Worthington  a 
cad,  and  he  wanted  to  say  so  to  his 
face. 

Worthington  sat  very  still.       He  had 


HALAMAR  125 

not  raised  his  head,  and  he  made  no 
effort  to  speak.  Presently  Carrington 
went  on. 

"Jean  is  a  brick.  You  don't  know 
just  what  kind  of  a  woman  she  is, 
even  though  she  is  your  wife.  She  is 
generous  to  a  fault,  and  her  sympathy 
has  been  her  undoing.  She  is  sensi- 
tive, too,  and  proud.  I  don't  mean  a 
false  pride,  but  the  other  —  the  kind 
that  makes  her  respected  and  loyal 
and  upright  and  true. 

"  You  don't  know,  and  you  prob- 
ably never  will  know,  what  your  send- 
ing her  away  has  meant  to  her.  How 
far  are  you  going  to  carry  it  ?  "  He 
stopped  in  his  walk  and  stood  so  close 
to  Worthington  that  when  the  latter 
raised  his  head  he  found  himself  look- 
ing directly  into  the  other  man's  eyes. 

"  I  want  her  now.  I  have  wanted 
her  ever  since  that  day  I  was  so  idiotic. 
I  was  jealous,  Carrington,  I  know  now 
that  it  was  jealousy.  At  the  time  I 
thought  I  was  being  kind  —  sacrificing 
myself  for  her.  Instead  I  was  acting 


126  HALAMAR 

like  a  child.  You  think  badly  of  me, 
I  can  see  that,  and  I  don't  blame  you, 
but  nothing  you  can  think  or  say  will 
be  a  circumstance  to  what  I  think  of 
myself.  I  never  knew  until  last  night 
that  Jean's  request  for  a  divorce  was 
prompted  by  a  letter  my  mother  had 
written.  If  I  had  guessed  it,  I  should 
have  come  here  long  ago.  I  wanted 
to  come,  but  I  thought  she  preferred 
you.  I  am  to  blame  for  everything, 
except  that.  I  want  to  tell  her  so. 
Where  is  she  ?  " 

Carrington  ignored  the  question. 
He  was  determined  to  finish  all  that  he 
had  to  say  before  he  took  him  to  her. 
"It  is  Omar's  play  that  has  used  her 
up.  Maurice  calls  it  a  law  of  sugges- 
tion. He  is  always  talking  of  that  law 
of  suggestion.  It  came  from  over- 
work, overstudy,  and  oversensitive- 
ness.  She  must  have  an  entire  change 
of  climate  and  an  absolute  rest,  also 
peace  of  mind.  You  can  supply  these 
things;  Maurice  says  he  can  do  the 
rest.  He  is  not  mistaken,  he  is  sincere. 


HAUAMAR  127 

It  is  to  be  a  sort  of  counter-suggesting, 
somehow,  I  don't  exactly  understand, 
but  he  does,  and  he  can  do  it.  I  know 
that.  He  may  be  a.  crank  along  cer- 
tain lines,  but  he  always  does  what  he 
says  he  can.  She  must  have  great 
kindness  and  no  worries.  Your  mother, 
for  instance  —  I  don't  mean  any  offence 
—  but  leave  her  at  home.  Lucie,  too; 
keep  her  somewhere  else.  Just  you 
three  go  :  Jean,  Maurice,  and  yourself. 
It  is  the  only  hope  —  always  keep  that 
in  your  mind  —  the  only  hope."  Car- 
rington's  voice  broke.  Worthington 
stood  up. 

''Take  me  to  her,"  he  said,  and 
Carrington  led  the  way. 

Hours  afterward  Omar  found  Dick 
in  the  studio.  Something  in  the  man's 
face  made  speech  impossible.  It  was 
lined  and  haggard,  and  somehow  he 
had  grown  thin. 

Omar  sat  down  beside  him  and  put 
one  of  his  hands  on  Carrington's  shoul- 
der. The  act  was  sympathetic,  but 


128  HALAMAR 

unobtrusively  so,  and  Dick  turned, 
gratefully. 

"  Blues,  old  man,"  said  he  huskily, 
his  voice  pathetic  for  all  the  attempted 
cheeriness.  "I  thought  I  had  passed  the 
age  of  sentimentality.  I  should  have  a 
broader  outlook,  for  I  am  old  enough.'' 

Omar  made  no  response. 

"  I  know  she  will  get  well.  She 
must  get  well." 

Omar  gave  a  slight  shudder.  He 
wondered  if  he  would  ever  be  able  to 
think  of  Jean  without  that  shudder. 
Then  he  looked  at  Dick,  and  a  light 
of  sudden  understanding  came  into  his 
eyes. 

"They  have  gone  and  she  is  happy. 
Half  the  battle  is  already  won,"  Dick 
went  on.  It  seemed  a  relief  to  him  to 
speak  of  her.  "  Maurice  is  certain 
that  she  will  get  well.  When  she  saw 
Worthington,  she  did  not  speak.  She 
was  pacing  her  room  like  a  tiger  in  the 
stealthiness  of  her  walk.  She  stopped 
quickly  when  he  came,  as  though  she 


HALAMAR  129 

were  seeing  something  unreal.  Then 
she  went  to  him  without  any  hesitation. 
She  seemed  to  forget  her  horror  of 
coming  in  contact  with  another.  I 
suppose  the  surprise  of  seeing  him 
made  her  forget. 

"  He  put  his  arms  around  her,  and  she 
looked  up  into  his  eyes.  The  expres- 
sion of  her  face  was  what  you  would 
expect  to  find  in  the  face  of  an  angel. 
The  wildness  was  all  gone  and  the 
confusion  and  the  desperation.  She 
said  '  Herbert/  very  quietly,  then 
without  the  least  warning,  she  fell  over 
in  a  dead  faint,  and  lay  so  still  and 
white  that  I  thought  she  was  gone; 
and  Worthington  cried. 

"He  sobbed  like  a  child — great, 
heavy  sobs  that  shook  his  whole  body. 
I  never  saw  a  man  so  unnerved.  Per- 
haps he  is  better  than  I  thought.  I 
believed  him  a  cad.  It  is  rather  awful 
to  see  a  man  cry,  Omar." 

He  was  not  conscious  that  there 
were  tears  in  his  own  eyes. 

9 


130  HALAMAR 

"  And  she  kissed  me  good-bye, 
Omar,"  he  added  softly.  He  said 
nothing  more,  and  when  Iky  and  Jo 
came  in  they  found  Carrington  and 
Omar  sitting  side  by  side.  Omar's 
arm  was  still  around  Carrington's 
shoulder. 


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HALAMAR 


BY 


GERTRUDE 
POTTER  DANIELS 


Univ 

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